


I am not the Phoenix that you wanted

by DangerDuchess, TheHiddenPassenger



Series: Phoenix [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Save Rock and Roll - Fandom, Young Blood Chronicles - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossover, It's all pretty gay, Laundry room sex, M/M, Riding, Time Travel, with a little bit of hetero sprinkled in!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/pseuds/DangerDuchess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenPassenger/pseuds/TheHiddenPassenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Young Bloods have the chance to change the future, prevent the apocalypse of sound, the end of creativity, the death of individualism. They have the power to stop Courtney Love and everything for which she stands. The problem is, they might not survive long enough to do that. It's going to take more than a couple of sweaty, hook-handed rock and rollers to save the world. Their aide will come in the form of four brightly-colored, sugar-buzzed, delinquent teens from California 2019. Together, they battle the overwhelming forces of BL/ind to return and prevent the proverbial "shit hits the fan" situation that's stirring between Courtney Love's goons and the world of rock and roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. America's Suitehearts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of utter fiction and (a bit more than) loosely based on the Young Blood Chronicles and Danger Days: True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. It is a piece of literature spawned from almost half a year of roleplay and heartache. My co-author is not a member of AO3 but rest assured, they're the finest Party Poison under whom I've ever served. We've tweaked certain events in the timeline to fit our needs in this great crossover endeavor, and we hope you enjoy the journey. So tune your sets and put your masks on, tumbleweeds; it's going to be a hell of a ride.

_“You can bow and pretend that you don’t-don’t know you’re a legend. Oh time-time-time hasn’t told anyone else yet (I’m sorry I just) let my love loose again.”_

~

The sun fell, warm and gentle across Pete’s body as he shifted to get the fuck away from the infernal heat and light. The air smelled good—kind of sweet and, y’know…pancake-y. Oh shit, where was he? Rubbing his eyes and cringing at the light, Pete realized exactly where he was, and in whose bed he was lying. The emo king wondered seriously if he’d fucked up. He never stayed. He _never_ stayed. It wasn’t good to stay—he’d be forced to think about stuff he didn’t want to contemplate instead of wallow in his own filthy guilt, alone at home but for his dogs.

Because he’d stayed, he would have to face the object—or was it subject?—of his guilt, who was even now cooking breakfast because that was just the kind of guy Patrick Stump was.

The whole “hooking up” thing had been happening since the beginning. At first, it was just Pete being Pete, trying to see if he could seduce the little vocalist. The answer had been an emphatic yes but of course, like most things in his life, it spiraled way beyond what one would consider healthy. Pete had even stopped doing it a while because he suddenly discovered he had a conscience. Of course, that had made Patrick feel like a loser.

But this…? For a few years now—mostly during their hiatus—Pete had developed the habit of randomly showing up at Patrick’s door, drunk and despondent. He never admitted it, but he really needed the miniscule soul punk. And the worst of it was Patrick would always let him in, always. There was never a question of where he’d been, _why_ he’d been there, what he was drinking, and who the devil would drop him off at Patrick’s door of all places.

He just let Pete in.

_Pete was sobbing like a lunatic—a common occurrence at the start of an evening tryst—on Patrick’s couch, face pressed into the slender young man’s shoulder. He smelled of booze and failure, as usual, and was blubbering something about him and Monica getting into a big fight. It was on and off with that girl, Patrick knew. One week they’d be soul mates and the next she’d be threatening to euthanize him and his dogs._

_The ginger always found this to be slightly alarming, as he was so far from prone to violence or even the talk of violence that the slightest hint toward it scared him right off. At the same time, he felt extremely, perhaps unhealthily protective of Pete, who’d always watched out for him._

_The hopeless sobbing had quickly dissolved into pawing and fondling, whispered compliments and apologies and sloppy kisses. That evening, Patrick himself had actually been drinking a little, enjoying a marathon of Law and Order: SVU—which of course was still on the television._

_“Y’always let me in…a-and I know I don’ deserve it…” Pete muttered into Patrick’s ear as he climbed atop him on the couch. His mouth descended on the ginger’s neck, silencing a reply beyond a quiet gasp._

_His hands wandered over Patrick’s slim body, enjoying the tautness of his stomach, the angle of his hips, the muscle that led between his legs. Oh, Pete Wentz had some wicked hands on him; his fingertips had become calloused from years of playing stringed instruments. Be that as it may, his lips were soft and gentle on the dove-like Patrick’s flesh, kissing and teasing but never, ever biting or leaving marks. Pete was horny; he wasn’t an animal._

_Okay, perhaps he was a bit of an animal, but not with his sweet, soft-spoken ‘Trick. The emo king had a weakness for that pale flesh, those green eyes that were sometimes blue—he was shit with colors—and those plump, bite-able lips. Before Patrick could say anything in the form of a word of comfort or perhaps a suggestion to move elsewhere, Pete’s mouth was on his, devouring him greedily._

_He needed Patrick, leaned on him heavily for much of what he could not manage alone, which was a lot, if he was being completely honest. The problem with that leaning was Pete had never come to terms with himself, much less how he felt about…well, anything. So, what ended up happening was instead of having a good, solid relationship with the vocalist, he’d show up at Patrick’s door, drunk or high or just sad._

_And then they’d fuck._

_Everything happened quickly after that, the bassist leading the longtime subject of his dreams and fantasies—and sometimes nightmares—into the ginger’s bedroom. Pete bumped the light-switch on the way through, if only to see Patrick. He knew every inch of the house by heart and the little singer kept it pristine most of the time so they had no fear of tripping on anything save each other._

_Alcohol clouded Patrick’s judgment that evening, as he had been planning on going to sleep early and not letting Pete in without a long chat. All that went out the window as soon as he’d laid eyes on the poor guy, of course. He couldn’t resist the older man, never had been able to and, as far as he could see, never would._

_And so they descended upon the bed and each other, fucking up the covers, clothes flying this way and that—pressing into each other as if at any moment, they might both disappear. Their lovemaking was more intimate than usual, Patrick in Pete’s lap, straddling his hips, foreheads pressed together. True to form, Patrick was chewing his lip and biting back quiet sounds of pleasure._

_Pete always made it his unspoken goal to get the ginger to squeal, but it had never happened. Oddly enough, when he wasn’t onstage, Patrick’s voice barely rose above the tone of a gentle, summer breeze. The bassist was always, without fail, amazed at the sounds that could come out of that mouth when necessary, but it did not occur outside of a performance. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the little guy shout at anyone._

_As Pete moved inside him, Patrick also got to thinking—though not about his stage career. His brain was sobering up from the pounding he’d been receiving; this was good for him and possibly devastating to Pete. Patrick knew it was a low blow to talk about relationship things when his friend was inebriated and also fucking him. The ginger figured he’d let Pete finish one of those things before speaking with him._

_Fortunately, the movements were becoming too fevered for the ginger to finish his thought. Instead, he rode it out, feeling Pete tense up beneath him, knowing the feeling that would come next, and glad he’d kept his glasses on. He secretly loved it when Pete came totally undone. The face he made when he came was fucking priceless and, had Patrick been a terrible human being, he’d have taken a damn picture and saved it as the background of his phone._

_But of course, the guy was a saint and did no such thing, allowing Pete to ride out his orgasm inside him as he finished himself between them._

_Suddenly, however, he felt his hand being swatted away from his own aching erection and Pete’s replacing it. Looking up to see what the bassist was doing, he met those soft brown eyes and realized that this time, he might have had a chance to speak with Pete about what was going down between them. The guy was feeling bad, Patrick could see that._

_“I’m a piece of shit,” Pete mumbled, jerking Patrick off. “All I do is…is fuckin’ take shit from you—I never…do anything for you.”_

_Patrick wanted to reply that was bullshit, that Pete had done plenty for him, like recruiting him to Fall Out Boy in the first place, and protecting him from the paparazzi; the list went on. The tight feeling in his gut and the heat radiating outward stopped him saying a thing, however. Instead, the ginger clutched at the emo king’s shoulders and tossed his head back, gasping quietly as his own orgasm exploded through his body and between theirs._

_He bucked a few more times into Pete’s calloused hand and then slumped forward, letting the other man support him. With his mouth against the side of Pete’s neck, Patrick finally got the chance to speak._

_“Stay,” he whispered, pathetically. It wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind but it was all that came to him at the moment. They were both inches from sleep, anyway. It was the only thing he could think of to say that might actually keep the bassist from setting his alarm and being out of the ginger’s house before the sun rose._

_Pete’s breath hitched. He held it in for a few seconds, praying that his sweet, harmless ‘Trick would just go the fuck to sleep. When he didn’t, when that soft head with those green eyes pulled back to sit upright in his lap and stare him down from behind dark-rimmed glasses, the bassist realized he was in deep—in more ways than physical._

_“Stay,” Patrick repeated, tone sharper. “Please.”_

_Slowly, Pete found himself nodding. It didn’t seem to be a voluntary response, but his heart throbbed painfully for what he’d been doing to Patrick for around a decade now that there really wasn’t a shred of him left that could deny the request. He felt like a piece of shit, and he was so very sorry, that staying seemed like a small price to pay._

_Except it wasn’t._

_Staying meant waking up next to Patrick. It meant facing his guilt. It meant defining their relationship as something. It also meant explaining to Monica where he’d been and that they were over. Breakups weren’t his strong suit; he doubted they were anyone’s. But he owed Patrick this much, at least. To that end, he helped lift the little guy off his cock, gently discarding the condom—Patrick was such an organized dude, he kept a trash can in his bedroom—and settled in next to the ginger._

_Patrick curled into Pete as he always had. Where there had once been soft pudge and rolls of flesh, there was now taught skin with hard muscle underneath. Goofy mutton chops had been replaced with evenly-trimmed sideburns. His beautiful ‘Trick still had the softest lips and the gentlest eyes, however, and that was what drew his mouth’s attention. First, Pete kissed that mouth, and then each eyelid as it closed, a bizarrely tender gesture for the bassist._

_And then they’d both drifted off to sleep._

The memory flooded Pete’s brain with warmth. He laid back and refused to let himself fully awaken, if only to drift back into it for a moment. That pancake smell was heavenly, however and with its wafting sweetness came the only hope anyone would have of pulling him from Patrick’s bed.

He heard the muffled sound of a door being pounded on and wondered if it was one of ‘Trick’s neighbors or maybe one of their friends. Pete shook his head and decided not to care, flopping back and losing himself to unconsciousness. The warmth pulled him slowly downward, spiraling into sweet oblivion.

Then something forceful and panicky yanked him right the fuck out. The sheets were pulled free of the bed completely and Pete was left, naked and confused, blinking sleep out of doe brown eyes as fast as he could manage. Staring back at him were the same doe browns with a hint of madness. Pete crinkled his brows as he slowly became aware that he was face to face with a dirty, sweaty, bloody—was that blood?—copy of himself.

“Who are—”

A sharp slap across his jaw assured Pete who it was.

And clearly, _he_ had something to say.


	2. Bulletproof Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the wild world of the fabulous Killjoys, and the dangerous roads they must travel. Fun Ghoul has been inside Battery City longer than anticipated, and his escape probably won't be a clean one. Good thing he's got Party Poison to watch his ass--

_“Let’s blow a hole in this town, and do our talking with a laser beam. Gunnin’ out of this place in a bullet’s embrace, then we’ll do it again.”_

~

Bathing in the desert sun would have been considered by most sane individuals to be a very bad idea. One could easily get burned in the heat and turn red as a lobster. But for the already vibrantly redheaded Party Poison, sunburn was the last thing on his mind. He would rather have been worrying about sunburn, but sitting in the front seat of the graffiti-coated Trans Am, he was stuck under ominous, thick, dark clouds, eyes fixed on the “Crowning Achievement of Man” that was the towering, black, trash heap of Battery City. Its massive, inky black walls hummed oppressively, filling the air with the dry drone of electricity flowing through the poisoned veins of the city.

It stood alone in the desert, a fortress covered in manufactured clouds pumped out by state-of-the-art weather machines. The air was filled with the sick, hollow stench of ozone that made Poison feel like he was going to choke. He felt sorry for every single sucker stuck behind those damned walls, wearing their headphones and taking their happy pills. Most of ‘em didn’t even realize what had been taken from them, and anyone who did was so quickly Drac’d, they’d never have a chance to turn Killjoy and run. It was a sorry state of affairs.

He wouldn’t have been sitting there in the car staring at the symbol of everything he hated if it wasn’t that his best man was currently behind those walls on a supply run. It should’ve been in and out, but there’d been mention of trouble in the messages he’d received. Just to be safe, Poison had come to check it out, staying just out of the city lines. The Killjoys were smart, but sometimes…

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, familiar voice of the second-in-command Killjoy, Fun Ghoul, came over the airwaves. The sound was scratchy, but the slight panic in his voice rang out clear against the hum of an engine. No doubt the ink-haired teen had accepted Battery City’s generous donation of one of their vehicles to facilitate safe exodus from the area.

“Ayo, this is Fun Ghoul, callin’ out live from Bat’ City. Who’s on the line?”

Poison took the line with a smirk, leaning back in the red leather driver’s seat. “Just me, babe. Kobra turned back. Where are you? ‘Crow Patrol’s comin’ round in less than ten minutes, so we need to scat, ASAP.”

There was a moment of heavy breathing on the other end as Poison waited for a response, which came accompanied by a siren in the background, a keening cry with which the Killjoys were all too familiar. Poison was already groaning when Ghoul’s hesitant response came. “…uh…. well… I’d say I’m less than ten minutes from you then.”

Poison hissed swears through his teeth and turned the keys in the ignition. “East or West?” the redhead asked, not trying hard at all to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“East, I think. Out by the tunnel with the big ‘Exterminate’ poster on it.” There was a loud noise that sounded like something exploded over the static of the car radio. “Or… the tunnel that _had_ the big exterminate poster on it.”

“I’m on my way; just… don’t die, alright?” The car—affectionately nicknamed ‘The Welcome Wagon’—roared to life and Poison floored it, driving like a madman towards the eastern side of Battery City’s ugly black wall. The dust from the dry desert floor was billowing behind him like a cape. He kept just outside the city lines, not wanting to trip any more alarms. Ghoul already had the attention of one ‘Crow patrol. They really didn’t need another one on Poison.

When he did wind up crossing the line, it was as he turned sharply, chasing after two BL/ind vehicles sped past him: one a ‘Crow patrol, the other a city food truck.

Poison didn’t have to guess which was Ghoul.

“Ayyy, I see you babe,” Came the punk’s voice. “Always good to have you on my tail.”

Poison smirked. They only used affectionate names like “babe” when they were alone, image being what it was to the Killjoys and affection being weakness to a bunch of teenage boys. He supposed that yes, they _were_ alone, aside from patrol vehicle full of blaster-wielding BLI soldiers.

“Don’t get comfy,” he responded. “We’ve gotta get rid of these assholes.” He floored the ‘Wagon, whipping out his own blaster and firing, if for no other purpose than to draw attention from his green-clad friend.

Ghoul’s truck had been shot plenty of times already, the back windows splintered and partially shattered from blaster shots. Poison was thankful the truck seemed to have plenty of battery to be running so fast and was still going strong. However, both Killjoys knew the city tires wouldn’t hold for long on the desert terrain. They had to get rid of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit, and fast.

“What’s the plan, chief?” Ghoul asked, waiting eagerly for his beloved leader’s order. “Which way we goin’?”

Said leader was still thinking about that. He tried to remember how the desert spread out from here. They were heading west around the city perimeter. Ghoul was doing the smart thing and starting to turn out of the city lines, but they still needed a plan. They couldn’t outrun the crows and they couldn’t lose the supplies in the truck. Poison bit his lip, contemplating their options, while simultaneously firing at the white squad car covered in that damned smiley face.

“How full’s your battery?” he said, finally.

Ghoul took a moment to check. “Uh… pretty full.” Over the radio, the sound of a blaster shot from the ‘Crows rang out, accompanied by the sound of glass shattering. Poison heard his partner swear. He could guess one of BLI’s elite had just shot out a window on Ghoul’s truck.

“What’cha got, babe?” The dark-haired Killjoy’s query came in a breathless gasp; they needed a plan, and they needed it fast. The redhead paused, firing at any weak spots he could locate—at this point, that meant the glass windows of the attacking ‘Crows. They had yet to fire back, but Poison could see he had their attention. He was going to get a BLI rebuttal at any moment.

“Go to your two o’clock, drive straight. I’m gonna try to run ‘em over the edge.”

A cough and then “—you fucking crazy?!” Ghoul’s response was not unexpected. “These tires will never hold! They’re not made for this kind of terrain, man!” He was protesting, but Poison saw the truck adjust position and start driving towards the gulch. Ghoul would argue, but he’d listen to Poison while doing what he was damn well told.

“Hopefully, we can knock ‘em over before that happens,” the redhead assured his partner. He knew the odds weren’t exactly in their favor, but they never were. “Just go quick and don’t fuck up, sound good?”

“10-4, chief,” Ghoul said, flooring his truck suddenly, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake. This gave Poison a bit of a distraction to try shooting out the car’s tires, maybe nail a black-and-white-masked ‘Crow, if they got close enough.

Luck was on Poison’s side, it appeared, as he was able to land a shot that managed to both break a window and hit a living target. It caused enough pandemonium in the truck that the vehicle swerved dramatically. Mentally cheering, the redhead moved his attention once again to shoot out the tires. He was abruptly forced to abandon the idea as the back doors of the Patrol car swung out and two ‘Crows opened fire on the Welcome Wagon. Thankfully, only a few of their shots found their intended targets. Poison was safe behind the glass of the windshield—for now, at least.

The yellow-masked Killjoy tried to return fire, but his equally yellow blaster had run out of shots, its battery pack reading empty. With a cuss as vibrant as his ensemble, Poison tossed the thing into the passenger seat. He didn’t have time to reload as he was driving a car at high speed, but knew there was a spare blaster in the ‘Wagon somewhere. With one hand on the wheel, he kept at the tail of the truck and pawed the area around his seat with the other.

“How’s it goin’ back there?” Ghoul’s voice asked, crackling over the radio.

“Aw, you’re concerned.” Poison responded, teasing a little. His fingers finally brushed the handle of the plastic of a blaster under the seat and whipped the thing out in seconds, finally able to return the generous blasting the ‘Wagon was taking, “I’m a little hot from the fire, but still kickin’. How about you?”

“Land ho’, babe. Drop off, dead ahead,” Ghoul informed his leader through the battered receiver as the parade of vehicles approached the ever-nearing cliff. He had a feeling Poison couldn’t see past the patrol car in front of him, and was correct in thinking so. “What do you want me to do?”

“Drive at it!” Poison hissed, as he ducked from blaster fire. The windshield was fractured in a few different places, but it was nothing Jet couldn’t fix. “Keep straight ‘til the last second, then turn.” With a grunt, Poison spun the wheel, starting to swerve and fire back. “I’ll push ‘em over if they don’t fall for it.”

“Jet’ll kill ya if you hurt his baby,” Ghoul commented. Poison, while knowing his partner was completely right, really didn’t need the other Killjoy’s comments at the moment. Not when he was under fire, careening down an uneven desert road. Instead of telling Ghoul to shut the fuck up, he just hissed through his teeth and kept shooting. He nailed one of the three ‘Crows firing at him and had to swerve so he wouldn’t hit the body as it fell out.

“How close are you to the edge?” Poison asked. He still couldn’t see the area in front of him, driving so close behind the Patrol car. But, before Ghoul could respond, Poison observed the food truck turn sharply, and start driving away. It nearly toppled but kept at least two wheels on the ground during the maneuver.

The patrol car had no time to compensate, and with the ‘Wagon right on their ass, they didn’t have any space to turn. The vehicle and all its contents and inhabitants went careening over the edge. The dry, unforgiving, desert air was full of the shrieks of doomed S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W soldiers.

Poison almost followed.

He slammed on the breaks and turned the wheel sharply to the right as far and fast as he could, swinging the car’s rear around; he thanked the Phoenix Witch for rear-wheel drive. The ‘Wagon groaned, her engine unhappy with this sudden change in motion as she slid alarmingly close to the edge.

True to form, and Jet Star’s masterful fine-tuning, she didn’t go over and instead obeyed Poison’s frantic guidance. When the Trans Am finally came to a stop, Poison paused long enough to take a breath, and then eased on the gas—for once in his life—sand drove away from the cliff edge, not even daring to look how close he’d come to death. There’d be time to think about that shit later.

The redheaded Killjoy caught up to Ghoul’s apprehended food truck, which had pulled over. It was a good thing they’d gotten the ‘Crows when they had. There was no way those tires would’ve held up for more than five miles on the rugged desert terrain. The rest of the vehicle was not doing very well either. Its entire backside had been hit so many times it looked like someone had painted a target on it and handed blasters to five-year-olds. The windows were shot out and scorch marks from all the blasts had painted the thing from sterile BLI white to desert dirt grey. Despite the damage, Poison hoped the cargo inside was still intact—and the food.

He got out of the ‘Wagon and ran around to Ghoul’s door, wrenching it open before the tattooed punk could turn off the engine. Just seeing the little terror’s mug made Poison feel better. That was, until he noticed the red smears on the other teen’s face. In less than a second Poison went from happy and relieved to angry and concerned. The punk realized he was busted and just grinned at his red-mopped leader.

“Heh… hey babe,” he choked, pulling down the bandanna over his mouth, unbuckling his seat belt, and starting to climb out. Poison stepped back to give him room, but the moment Ghoul was out of his seat, he fumbled, practically falling on top of the taller Killjoy. The redhead barely had time to catch the green-clad delinquent extraordinaire before he crashed into the ground.

Slowly, Poison set Ghoul down. He leaned the ink-haired Killjoy against the side of the stolen truck, assessing the total damage on his partner. His face was bleeding from a few places, but it wasn’t anything too terrible. However, the moment Poison laid a hand on his ribs, Ghoul coughed out an involuntary strangled cry of agony. His face was contorted hideously in pain, making Poison retract his hand as fast as he could. The guys in the truck hadn’t been the first to get to Ghoul; that much was obvious.

The Killjoy leader got up, leaving his partner in the shade of the truck, trotting his tight little ass back over to the ‘Wagon—Fun Ghoul appreciated the view. Poison quickly grabbed a canteen from under the passenger’s seat and ran back over to his friend. He didn’t say anything, silently offering the water. Ghoul would tell him what had happened eventually, but right now the guy needed help.

The parched, battered infiltrator took the canteen with a half-breathed thanks before swallowing greedily. He was crazed and exhausted, filled to the brim with adrenaline and feeling ready for more. The only obstacle was that every part of his body hurt, and he was starting to get the impression that something in him had burst or ruptured or something, though he’d never tell his fearless leader that; not now, at least.

Lowering the canteen and taking a moment to breathe, Ghoul watched his redheaded partner slide down next to him against the truck. Poison was waiting for the black-haired Killjoy to tell him what happened. He’d never verbalize the desire, but he was silently demanding the explanation that Ghoul would eventually have to give him.

“…Got into a little trouble getting in the truck… let’s just say the guy I grabbed it from wasn’t very appreciative.” He handed the canteen back to Poison, not meeting his leader’s eyes. “Got me in the gut and ribs pretty good. Not to mention my beautiful face.”

Poison probably would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious. “How bad?” he asked, clearly still worried.

The green-clad Killjoy licked his lips, hesitant to respond. He rolled his head to look at Poison, his face pulling into a smile that was more grimace than grin. “…Pretty bad…?”

Poison’s head fell back, hitting the truck with a soft thud while hissing through his teeth. He kicked at the dry desert dirt, frustrated. This sort of thing was starting to happen more and more. Killjoys used to be able to sneak in and out of Battery City like nothing. All they’d need to get in was a change of dark, bland clothes. But now, things were starting to tighten up. The cracks were getting smaller and smaller to slip through, making food harder and harder to find. Killjoys sneaking in were coming back with larger collections of wounds each time. To say things were getting dangerous was putting it mildly.

“Look, it’s not like I went in _not knowing_ ,” Ghoul said, trying to keep Poison from going on a rampage. “I took a chance. And hey,” he said, a hand flopping to hit the truck against which they were both leaning. “I’d say we won, man! Check out my haul!”

Poison’s lips were pursed, thinking. He looked at the truck for which he and Ghoul had nearly died. He supposed he might as well see what their efforts had earned them. He leaned his back against the side and pushed himself to his feet. He’d been so worried about Ghoul he hadn’t even thought to check what exactly the guy had grabbed that was so damn important.

Sliding back the side door on the truck revealed stacks and stacks of cans. Their black and white labels indicated all kinds of different foods. A massive grin spread across his face. Shit, this was a great haul. They wouldn’t be able to get all of this back, but still, this was enough food for 10 different camps for a good two weeks if not more.

“Shit, Ghoul, this is great!” Poison said, looking back down at his partner, who was still resting against the truck.

Ghoul returned his leader’s grin. “You ain’t even seen the best part, babe,” he said, slowly trying to get to his feet. “Check the bag in the passenger’s seat.”

The redhead put out a hand for Ghoul to support him, but Ghoul put his hands in the air, showing he didn’t want any help. He managed to get to his feet, but stayed leaning against the truck. He knew if he stepped away from the support of the vehicle he’d fall right back down, but for the time being he was fine.

Keeping one eye on his partner, Poison stepped around to the driver’s door and leaned across to grab the BLI canvas bag sitting there. He opened it as he stepped out of the truck, curious as to what Ghoul had gotten that was making him grin so hard. He unzipped the bag and nearly dropped it when he realized what he was seeing.

The bag was full to the brim with fluffy, yellow, golden logs sealed in plastic wrap.

Ghoul had stolen a bag full of Twinkies.

“Holy _shit_!” Poison exclaimed, looking back to his partner, like he was holding the Holy Grail. He might as well have, since this was about as rare as finding colored clothing or non-BLI issued headphones. This shit was rare as fuck, almost literally worth its weight in gold—if gold were a valid currency. “Where did you find this?!”

Ghoul grinned. The trouble of getting the bag was worth it for his redheaded leader’s reaction. “Saw ‘em sitting there, probably about to get disposed of. Doesn’t fit BLI’s vision of ‘perfection.’ “

“Well they need to adjust their definition,” Poison said, already unwrapping the incredibly unhealthy treat and nearly swallowing the damn thing whole. He let out a moan that was practically sexual. Fuck, a Twinkie in the desert might as well have been a sexual experience, after eating dog food.

“Ghoul, you’re a fucking angel,” Poison said, after he’d swallowed, pocketing the plastic wrapper and zipping the bag up. “Let’s get all this home… You go sit in the ‘Wagon, I’ll load her up.”

The ink-haired Killjoy gave his alarmingly scarlet-scalped partner a salute and began limping to the ‘Wagon. He was grateful Poison was busy unloading the truck or else he’d have seen Ghoul’s true state, the ginger way he settled himself, the wince that would warp his face if he shifted.

The miniscule Killjoy was practically falling apart, his head pounding and chest aching. He’d nearly passed out upon reaching the passenger’s seat. By the time he had finally chosen a semi-comfortable position, Poison had only just emerged with bags full of BL/ind cans. He hadn’t seen, nor would Ghoul let him see if he could help it.

Once Poison had salvaged all he could, he dropped the bag in the back of the ‘Wagon and leapt into the driver’s seat, turning the old girl on and letting her purr a moment before flooring it across the desert dust. He intended on relaying the truck’s coordinates to Dr. D as soon as they were safe, so other raiding parties could come and reap the benefits of Ghoul’s hard work.

The sun was starting to reach down and touch the horizon. At this rate, they’d make base just at nightfall, after the sun had fully sunk beyond view and left only small traces of gold around where it had disappeared. From there, the black ink of the night sky would spread, staining the lingering touches of the orange light with its navy sheet of stars and space.

If they weren’t needed back at camp, and if Ghoul wasn’t in such an awful state, Poison would’ve suggested driving the ‘Wagon out to some empty part of the desert, lying on the warm hood of the old Trans Am and watching the stars together, like they’d done a few times before.

But right now they had a mission to complete. In addition, while the battered and dazed Killjoy would never admit it, he was getting worse by the moment. He wouldn’t confess this to Poison until they were inside and he had a chance to truly assess himself; there was no reason to unnecessarily alarm anyone. For the time being, he simply tried to keep his body still, which was difficult in a moving car along the cracked and broken roads of their wasteland home. Poison did his best to ease up around turns and avoid whatever potholes, rocks, and hills he could, but some things couldn’t be helped.

When they did finally arrive, Poison swatted Ghoul’s hands as the boy reached for one of the bags. “You can barely stand,” he chastised. “You’re not doing a damn thing.”

Begrudgingly, Ghoul slumped in his seat, knowing full well Poison was right. He would need Poison’s help just to walk inside. There was no way he could’ve carried the bags. Instead he watched Poison grab all three bags in one trip (as multiple trips were for wimps), and deposit them inside. Unpacking could wait until tomorrow. For now, the redhead was concerned with his partner and went back outside to retrieve him.

One arm around Ghoul’s waist and one of Ghoul’s arms around Poison’s shoulders, the pair made their way out from the diminishing light of the desert and into the small, old diner in which the Killjoys had made base. Poison—as gently as he could—dropped Ghoul into one of the old chairs. Ghoul collapsed with a sigh, no doubt grateful to be stationary for once after bouncing all over the desert.

“How bad is it?” The redhead asked again, sitting across from Ghoul in the booth. Concern was etched in his expression, which was almost harder to face than his rage. This time, he was asking for real; he wanted an assessment and a true answer shortly thereafter so he could decide what to do.

“Mm…I’m not entirely sure,” came a cracked reply after a few moments of silence. It was clear Ghoul was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep. The dark bags under his eyes seemed massive, but perhaps that was just shadows draped across his face from the room’s poor lighting. Either way, Ghoul looked awful. “But… I’m pretty sure I got a concussion…”

Poison bit his lip. He was no medical expert, but he knew that was not good. “…What do we do, then?” He asked, leaning forward across the table. Ghoul, surprisingly enough, was actually somewhat medically apt, having looked through almost every book he came across. He really didn’t act like it—the desert scholar not being a persona that fit the boy very well—but Poison trusted his decision in these sorts of things.

“Well…” Ghoul began, scratching at the back of his head. “I’m... not gonna be able to sleep just yet… if I do, there’s a chance I won’t wake up…” His voice was choked; it was hard to deliver this news to his partner. Sucking up his discomfort, he readjusted his thought pattern to something a little less ominous. Slowly a wicked grin spread across his face. “You’re on watch tonight?” he asked. Poison nodded, not sure where Ghoul was going with this. The tatted Killjoy reached forward, placing a hand on Poison’s thigh. “Then you’re just gonna have to keep me up.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Poison said, swatting the boy’s hand off its intended target for the second time that day. “If you’re exhausted and wounded, you can forget having sex, asshole.” The redhead got up, leaving Ghoul in the chair, pouting a little, but again, he had to admit Poison was right. Sex probably wasn’t the best move for his personal health.

When the redhead returned after a few minutes, he was holding two mugs. He carefully slid one over to Ghoul, trying not to spill, before he drank from his own. The slightly disgusted face he made told Ghoul all he needed to know.

“Coffee?” he said, the disdain in his voice palpable. None of the Killjoys liked coffee. Not without a whole ton of sugar added.

“Yes, coffee. It’s bitter as fuck, but it’ll keep us awake.” Poison sat down next to his tattooed idiot; he loved Ghoul so much sometimes he wanted to strangle the guy. The motherfucker was strong, and often in the worst possible way; in the desert, you had to be or you ended up dead. Poison was constantly trying to minimize the damage their team took, and right now this was the best he could do, considering the circumstances.

“Now start talking,” he said, sliding into the seat next to his dark-haired partner and giving Ghoul a smile. “We’ve got a whole night to get through.”

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is our desire to make this story as clear as possible, though for the first few chapters, we WILL be switching back and forth between Young Blood and Killjoy storylines. Much like a zipper, both sides will eventually mesh into one (semi-) coherent timeline. We hope you enjoy and we look forward to your feedback.
> 
>  
> 
> [PS, the title indicates that I (thehiddenpassenger) wrote this one, when in fact, it was my colleague, (dangerduchess). All credit for this awesomeness goes to her. I believe the reason it indicates that I wrote it is due to the fact that until recently, she didn't have an AO3 account and could not post as a co-author...]


	3. This Ain't a Scene; it's an Arms Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the events of YBC 9: Rat A Tat, Pete and Patrick's path takes a decidedly different turn than what you've probably witnessed. What hope do they have left in the bowels of Courtney Love's anti-Rock HQ? And what horrors await them?

_“I wrote the gospel on giving up (you look pretty sinking) but the real bombshells have already sung (prima donnas of the gutter).”_

~

Out of the warehouse workroom and down the hall Patrick tailed his—what was this guy again? Friend? Yeah that was the word. It was all coming back to him in a wave and panic began to wash over the short Youngblood. Something had happened just then, something he didn't remember and it scared the piss out of him. His heart raced; the metallic, salty tang of adrenaline filled his mouth and his lungs were afire. He wasn't sure if Pete knew where the fuck he was going but everything was a blur in the ginger's mind anyway so he figured his buddy's guess was safer than his.

The front entrance was blocked, manned by girls who would've been imposing enough without all the leather and spikes. One of them held a "ghetto blaster" for lack of a better term, very similar to the one the child in the woods had held. A finely manicured nail pressed down on the play button and a low, dismal tone spilled out of it.

Patrick didn't recognize the sound, couldn't possibly have understood what it meant. He slowed his gallop behind Pete, who'd taken a sharp right and looked to the women at the front door. The one not holding the music device pointed after the other man and indicated he should be followed.

Pete was freaking out. He was trying to keep his cool as best he could, but there was no pamphlet about what to do when you found yourself running for your life with a suitcase full of incredibly dangerous, probably radioactive _stuff_ from supermodels with weapons. This rescue mission was going to hell fast. They were dropping like flies, first Joe and now, heaven only knew where the fuck Andy was. He was either just as lost or dead.

 _Just keep running_ , Pete thought. _You'll figure something out._

Stairs!! Oh thank god for stairs. The stairs led down, and Pete could only pray there was some sort of back exit. He practically jumped down them, eager to get himself and his best friend to safety. "C'mon, 'Trick," He called over his shoulder, running again.

Pete's voice snapped the ginger out of a disjointed thought, something about "another bad poem." He'd have shaken his head but suddenly found himself taking stairs downward two by two, heart beating out a staccato rhythm of utter panic. Shutting the door behind him didn't occur to the frightened vocalist as the girls _probably_ had fucking keys to their own goddamn building. Nope, now was not stopping time, it was running time.

They reached the bottom and it then crossed Patrick's mind that there should be at least one more person with them. Running out of energy, he leaned heavily against a wall, panting.

"Wh—where's Andy?" The vocalist heaved. He knew where Joe went and that somehow it was _his_ fault but he didn't recall offing their drummer.

Patrick moved to wipe sweat from his eyes and nearly jabbed himself. An ungainly squawk of alarm left his lips before he remembered the hook had been a gift from his then-panicked bassist friend. In retrospect, it had probably been an awful idea to outfit a brainwashed guy with a hook in place of his stump but of course, no one had been thinking clearly as they struggled to escape their unholy baptism by silence.

"Not now, Pat," Pete responded, raising his fretboard machete the woman from earlier—Hannah, he thought it was—had given him, really hoping he didn't have to use it. He didn't exactly trust her or the sturdiness of the weapon she'd so graciously bestowed. Then again, at this point, any beautiful woman was pretty suspect to the remaining members of Fall Out Boy. The olive-skinned man heaved a frustrated sigh.

This rescue mission was completely falling to shit. Pete glanced at his short friend who was squawking at the hook on his hand. He would've laughed at the expression on Pat's face were they not in the process of being chased. Pete elbowed Patrick to snap his attention back to their present reality—whatever that was turning into.

Before speaking, he swallowed, and paused a moment for breath. Carrying both the weapon and the case wasn't helping anything.

"Alright, 'Trick... you're on briefcase duty." He handed his friend the briefcase, putting it in his good hand, not wanting to put any sort of weight on that janky-ass hook. God forbid his stumpy—Pete nearly choked at the awful pun that just floated through his panic-addled brain—hand got infected from that thing. The closed cuffs still on the handle reminded him of how this whole mess got started. Fortunately, the though didn't stop him moving. He walked further down what appeared to be a dimly lit hallway.

"C'mon, bro. We've got ass to haul,” Pete indicated the desire for forward motion with a jerk of his head.

Patrick grabbed the briefcase and, for half a second, was hit in the gut with the urge to turn and tear back up those stairs and "return" it. But why the fuck would he want do something idiotic like that? Return was a relative term anyway as he wasn't entirely certain these bitches _should_ have something like what was in the case—The Element is what they’d been calling it, for lack of a better title.

His mind danced carefully around the word for fear even _thinking_ it would alert them to it’s presence and, by proxy, his own. Then again, he and Pete were still in their facility, and deeper by the look of it. Better judgment said he ought to suggest they find a way back up, that this was bad and wrong in every way. The sound of Prada on metal stair grating kicked his heart into overdrive once more and he squawked again.

"Move!"

They began to run once more, winding deep into the bowels of the facility.

"Shit!!" Pete barked, a response he realized was entirely inappropriate and unnecessary, but sadly reflexive. He joined Patrick in running again and did so until they reached a barrier. The bassist ripped open the door, which lead to a room of indeterminate size, and scrambled through it. He made damn sure Patrick was still behind him; it wouldn’t do to lose someone else. It hadn’t really been the best thing to lose the first two but Pete was determined he would _not_ be letting Patrick go.       

He waited for the singer to pass him, being the only one armed in their rag-tag team of idiots. Why did they get into this shit in the first place? Joe was dead now, all because of that fucking suit case and its contents. Was it even worth all this? Had they made a grievous mistake?

But it was far too late to ask that sort of thing now. He and the tussled ginger went further in, the lights switching on automatically as they moved. He knew that this probably wasn't the right direction, but he also knew the opposite way was _definitely_ the wrong one. This place had at least some kind of expensive science-y stuff they could break or throw if Courtney’s girls came in after them. Pete looked around for an exit, but found nothing but some weird-looking machine.

"...what the hell are they _doing_ here...?"

"Who gives a shit, dude; we're trapped like...lab rats," Patrick moaned, cramming his shoulder against the door and sliding downward. His heart kicked at his ribcage, as if trying to dislodge itself and keep running. What it didn't seem to understand was that they were at a dead end, and with the click of heels so damn close behind them, they'd be swiftly overtaken. The ginger set the soles of his shoes onto the tile floor and made sure they'd hold if someone started pushing on the door. He almost wished he was still tubby—it would at least have meant more weight to hold the thing back.

The strange machine seemed to hum a little, and it had been doing this since they entered. As Patrick laid the briefcase aside to cradle his hook that settled where a hand ought to have been, the machine responded to the nearness of the material within.

"Huh?" The ginger grunted, raising a brow, "check this out." He shoved the briefcase further, unwilling to stand. There was no way of telling how close Courtney's army of bitches was to their current location and Patrick wasn't taking any more stupid chances.

Pete watched the case and its effect on the machine. Whatever this thing did it, the contents of the case seemed to be making it hum louder. Pete was no engineer, but he'd wager a guess that whatever was powering the machine was either the same as what was in the case or very reactive with it. He bumped the case closer experimentally. Whatever these girls were doing with this machine, it involved the case and The Element within. Pete looked around the room, hoping for something—anything!—to give some sort of indication of the gizmo’s purpose.

Pete spared a glance at his partner in crime, who looked like he was in a considerable amount of pain. He had to work fast. The sooner they were out of there, the better. Patrick was looking worse and worse with every minute and the panicked running wasn't helping; the movement would mean a spread of any kind of infection that might have been brewing under the cap of bandages and steel. They _had_ to get his hand looked at soon.

“Careful," the ginger warned, watching the strange, unidentifiable machine fairly come to life. "Dunno if I WANNA see what THAT thing does."

His right wrist gave a sympathy ache for the left one, separated from its beloved appendage not so very long ago. The wound was still fresh and bleeding a bit. There was no pus, no infection and no strange smell but blood. For this he was thankful. Someone must've done something to it while he was out—and he'd been out a LOT recently. Most recently, he’d awoken to find Joe dead, wrapped in cables, asphyxiated. But worse than that was the way Andy and Pete looked at _him_ , their eyes clearly indicating what no one's voice would say, that it was _his_ fault, that _he_ had done it.

Pete gave Pat’ a wave, acknowledging he'd heard, but was still looking at the table of buttons. Were this a less serious occasion, he'd press them all, being the enormous five-year-old he was. He set down the fret board machete and brought his hands together behind his neck, a gesture which clearly communicated frustration. They were locked in this room for however long till those music-hating bitches found them. All they had was a weird ass blade, a brief case, and the weird machine in front of them. Pete was no MacGyver, that was for damn sure.

He sighed, dropping his hands. "Ah, 'Trick, I don't think—" He turned, bumping the strange blade, which then fell, hitting the board of buttons. "Oh, shit!" Pete squawked as the machine's hum began to intensify, like it was booting up or something. To what end, Pete didn't think he wanted to know. "Shit-shit-shit!!" he looked at the panel, pressing buttons he'd hoped would turn the thing off. The arc began to bend and reform. its pieces hovered oddly, as if suspended by strings, reacting with the briefcase which began to vibrate.

"Get th' fuck away from that thing!" Patrick hissed, torn between running up and physically hauling the bassist away from it and staying right where he was—neither of which were particularly well-thought-out or safe. He tangled one hand in fine, red hair and chewed his lower lip, watching the device shape itself into something of a ring. Patrick failed to notice the briefcase working its latches open; whatever was inside was evidently very attracted to the device.

Pete wanted to smack himself in the head repeatedly. He could hear the sound of high heels and someone yelling. In all honesty, he didn't know who he'd rather take his chances with: The girls, or the machine. Neither seemed pleasant. He grabbed the fred blade, just in case the girls got in first, and trotted back over to his fellow band member. If he was going down, it was with the last of his friends.

The machine’s hum was steadily growing, louder and louder, like something out of a ScFi horror film. Pete looked away from it, wondering if they could exit without being seen. And then Pete spied the shadowy silhouettes of women in the distance through the cloudy glass of the door. Obviously Courtney’s goons could hear their own damn machine. It was like lighting a candle in a room full of moths. They were fucked, truly and sincerely fucked.

“Fuck me,” Pete’s expression of utter defeat was his last line of defense.

"Maybe not now, Pete my boy," Patrick attempted to introduce levity into the situation but failed miserably, given their current predicament. He groped for the handle of the precious duralumin case for which two of their buddies had died. It was nowhere to be found. By the time he located it, and scrambled forward to grab it, the thing was shivering open.

The element within, a glowing, strange rock, tumbled out and shot toward a half-filled socket in the machine. Apparently, whatever it was filled and finished the combination of power sources. Just then, the door cracked open, with nothing stopping it. A woman carrying a flail stepped through.

Pete attacked instantly, blocking the path between her and Patrick. He was not losing anymore band members--no, friends-- today. He was no swordsmen, but he knew the simple equation “blade+human body= death if you hit hard enough.” He'd already killed one of these girls before with the hook now on Patrick's left hand, and this blade was actually made for fighting.

The bassist swung like it was an old guitar, ready to smash at a final show. It felt natural with the fret board, somehow, and the whole weapon overall was surprisingly strong. He didn't dare take his eyes off the girl, but was hoping Patrick was finding either someplace to hide, or something with which to fight.

Her head came clean of her body with that single swing, the torso limp and limbs going slack and falling in a heap of flesh, leather and steel. But she was not alone. Two more flooded in, one of whom carried the dreaded cassette player. The other was armed with a katana. She lunged for Pete while the girl with the music device turned her attention on Patrick, who was trying to get to his feet. He whirled to face her just as she hit the button.

Pete stepped back, knocking aside katana girl’s lunge. He was way more concerned about Patrick than his own safety, however and immediately turned his attention to the ginger vocalist. The bassist-turned-killer tried to take a swing at the music player, but the girl with the katana was set on keeping him busy. No doubt she had more experience with her weapon than Pete did with his.

Her constant attacks pressed him back. He was losing ground fast. She was going to pin him in a corner if he didn't do something quickly. He counted her rhythm. She attacked with a quick tempo. 1-2-1-2-1-2, 1-2-1-2-1-2. Pete lunged in the break, hoping to catch her off guard. He had to get to Patrick. The little guy was all he had left now.

The woman with the cassette player pressed the button and that low, ugly sound fairly slithered out of the speakers, seeming to crawl across the gap between them and Patrick's ears. He went still, eyes wide, watching the void between himself and the woman. Katana girl stopped her pressing attacks a moment to laugh and make some snide comment. It was her mistake.

Pete took the chance to swing again, using all his strength to carve a clean slash across her throat. Her body toppled one way, in the opposite direction from her now liberated head. He leapt over the twitching body, charging at the other girl. He had to save his friend. Pete was fed up with the thought of her or any of her fucking supermodel sisters hurting the people he loved anymore. It wasn’t as though the bassist had too many of those in the first place and now he really only had one left.

He rammed the blade into the ghetto blaster girl’s gut. She dropped the radio and collapsed, giving him something of a pleading look on the way down. The device broke with a groaning cry of agony as its last notes began spilling forth. Pete removed the blade savagely. It, much like him, was now covered in the warm, sticky, red stuff. He took a moment to breathe. He'd just killed three women, holy fuck. What was he doing with his life anymore?

As if in non-verbal response to Pete’s equally silent question, Patrick's eyes flashed a sick, dangerous yellow and he began to make his hobbling, stumbling way toward a man he no longer recognized as a friend. The sound of the radio had been muffled, but the vocalist was still taking a wide, arcing swing at Pete. The limb that was doing the swinging happened to be a nasty, metallic hook.

Pete looked over at his friend just in time to duck out of the way of the hook that quickly sailed through the air he'd previously occupied.

"Holy shit," he breathed. Off balance and low to the ground, Pete hit the floor and started scooting away from his friend, his last friend. Those eyes—those damned yellow eyes...

"Patrick. Patrick, it's me! It’s Pete! Damn it Patrick, Listen to me!" No. He couldn't fight his friend. He couldn’t fight sweet, innocent Patrick. The guy wouldn’t hurt a fly unprompted and even then he’d probably have apologized for doing the insect any harm.

The tape player breathed its last and seemed to choke out a hoarse death rattle before the song—or whatever the fuck it was—ended and released its hold on the vocalist. Patrick stopped, blinking, confused and disoriented just like when he'd killed Joe. Back then, Pete hadn't been a firsthand witness to the trigger though he hadn’t doubted for a second that there _was_ one as his friend, his dear, sweet ‘Trick would never voluntarily murder anyone.

The noise made a normal man sick, the deep, discordant tones rattling one’s innards. The bassist didn’t know what it did to make Patrick lose his shit but he now understood that stopping it also stopped his friend’s madness. Patrick now crawled out of his daze and studied his surroundings, his position and Pete's. His bloodshot green eyes went wide when he realized what he'd evidently been attempting to do.

"Oh christ..." He breathed. "Pete, I'm—" The whirring of the machine had grown to a screaming roar and the sound cut Patrick off entirely.

Pete stood up shakily. He wanted to hug his friend and tell him it was okay, but honestly, he was afraid. After what happened with Joe, he simply couldn’t look at the ginger the same way. There really _was_ no going back. Pete just didn't know anymore. He found himself reflecting on how little he’d known in the first place and now, in over his head was a mild way to describe where he now found himself. The threatening noise of the machine continued, drowning the bassist’s thoughts.

Patrick’s advance had backed Pete up to be within two feet of the thing, which he now scrambled the fuck away from faster than he thought he could move. He picked up his bloody bass blade as if it was supposed to protect him. The machine was whirring so fast it was starting to cause a breeze in the room.

"This... is not good," Pete observed, officially winning the understatement of the year award.

Patrick tore his eyes from Pete, who appeared just as scared as he felt, and affixed them to the machine. It was mesmerizing. The urge to step through that hovering circle was almost overwhelming. He stepped back several feet, fighting that strange, gut-wrenching pull. Reaching out with his actual hand, he tugged at the elbow of Pete's jacket, motioning he should move away, as well. They'd been so transfixed with the events _in_ the room, however, both guys had missed what might've been going on the opposite side of the large, steel door through which they had come. They did not hear the heels on the cold tile floor or the order to "fire at will."

The twang of a crossbow bolt ripped the vocalist from his trance. A strange projectile, burying itself in Pete's back and pitching the man forward made Patrick turn, and the cackle of the bitch holding Andy's crossbow enraged him. He wanted to rush her, tear her to bits but he was so scared—so very, very scared.

And they had a cassette player.

Pete yelled out, more with the shock of impact rather than actual pain; that came later. He'd had sharp objects in his skin before, but this took the fucking cake. He dropped his bass blade, falling onto his knees, groaning. It was as though someone had set fire to his veins, the way the ripping agony spread. He tried his best to stand back up, but his entire body protested. The bassist breathed out curse words and promises and every obscenity that leapt to mind. His shirt clung to his back with the sweat that was beginning to bead thereupon.

Patrick saw the cassette player and made a beeline for Pete. He wasn't a killer, didn't want to hurt anyone—even Love’s goons. He just wanted to get out of the facility alive. Grabbing his friend's arm and looping it over his shoulder, he levered the bassist upward and started the hobble toward the device. Something deep inside told him it would be okay—or somewhat okay—if they went through that thing.

There was a strange aura about that piece of material...was it singing to him? The strange glowing element had completed whatever Courtney and her army of anti-Rock girls were doing here. He steeled his jaw as the tape player began its slow, hypnotic moan. They were almost there and the noise was overwhelming; he was thinking of it as a portal drowned out all other sounds.

Pete had to close his eyes. The light of the portal thing was bright, even blinding. He felt like his whole body was being compressed and stretched in the same moments. This was not helping the projectile in his back, or anything else, for that matter. When it finally stopped, Pete was almost ready to throw up.

He landed face down in... dirt?

The emo king could feel the warm sun beating overhead. He strained to open his eyes. They were…in a desert? Had the machine spat them out in Nevada or some shit? He groaned as he tried to push himself up.

"...Where are we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you guys enjoyed this one... The aim is a chapter a month, to keep things even and ease the burden off the two of us--this is, after all, an RP in progress as well as a story we've chosen to share with you all.


	4. Na Na Na

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash back to the Fab Four. It's a usual morning in the dry desert. With things to do and tasks to accomplish, they hit the road, ready for the day, until an patrol goes awry and the crew gets chased down by a horde of dracs and and the infamous Korse.

_“Eight legs to the wall, hit the gas, kill ‘em all, and we crawl. You be my detonator.”_

~

Act 4: Na Na Na

The desert was a quiet place at night. Once the lights turned down and the parties ended—and there were a lot of parties, a soft silence rolled over the dehydrated wasteland, nothing daring to make noise. The radios turned to recordings or static, a hush taking hold of the Killjoy world, wrapping everything in the black and navy embrace of the dark night air. Nothing moved and nothing spoke, save for the wind which asked to the empty space where everyone had gone and received no reply.

The radios didn’t begin their broadcasts until the sun had been in the sky for a good hour or two. There was never a set time for when they began, they just started whenever there was a DJ awake and in the studio, ready to play some noise to wake the world back up.

Poison, who’d been up almost all night, had accidentally nodded off at the end of his watch for a good two hours. When the radio’s static was interrupted as the broadcast started, he jolted awake, startled. Doctor Death Defying was on the radio this morning, his smooth, jazzy voice coming through the slight static of the old boom box.  As Poison remembered where he was, he relaxed a bit, letting out a sigh and standing to stretch, slowly waking himself up.

The diner was silent, the fire-haired teen being the only thing that was moving and thereby, making noise. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, revealing their trophies and possessions that had been shrouded in shadow during the night. The trinkets lined the walls and included anything from art projects, pamphlets, magazines, and instruments, all just piled atop one another. Some stacks were dangerously close to tipping.

It was a colorful mess, but to the Killjoys, it was home. The clutter was comforting, and as long as it didn’t get in the way, it would be left just where it was. Besides, the shit they had lying around was pretty damn cool and no one liked throwing stuff out. They were teenagers, after all.

Glancing around the room, the redhead smiled as he looked over at Ghoul, who’d fallen asleep in one of the booth benches. The inky-haired boy was snoring quietly, curled into himself and leaning against the wall. He was probably drooling too, though Poison couldn’t see from this angle. At least he was finally getting some rest, after fighting to stay awake all night.

Stretching his stiff body, the leader of the Killjoys strolled behind the counter of the diner, rummaging through the cans from Ghoul’s relatively successful heist the day prior. There were cans of all kinds, from things like corn to BLI’s special “meal in a can.” He didn’t want to open any of the really great stuff, as it could be sold for about fifteen carbons each.

He also didn’t want to eat before everyone else was awake, so instead Poison did a quick general inventory. He hated to see all this great food go, but they still had the Holy Grail bag of golden logs that Ghoul had managed to swipe. He couldn’t wait to show the others.

Party Poison took another quick look around the diner before poking his head into the back room where Kobra and Jet were asleep on top of bare mattresses around the small cot where the Girl lay. Jet was still wearing his jacket and had on big headphones through which Poison could hear music leaking.

He was tempted to walk over and turn the volume up to full and wake the guy up, but decided against it, since all the Killjoys slept fairly close to their weapons. As if to emphasize this truth, Kobra Kid had actually fallen asleep with his blaster only inches from his hand. He’d probably been waiting for Poison to come back and fallen asleep while on watch, which made the redhead feel a bit guilty for not radioing back.

Lastly, Poison looked over at the Girl. She was about seven now, but still had issues sleeping. Every now and then, she’d get nightmares or wake up crying, asking where her mom was. There wasn’t a ton the colorful teens could do in that situation, other than hold her and rock her. Whenever it was Poison’s turn to take care of her, he tried singing. That usually helped and sometimes even put her back to sleep whilst still in his arms.

She was strong when one stopped to consider her age, and all the shit she’d experienced. Poison knew being raised by four crazy teens was not the best way to grow up. Sometimes, it was debatable who was raising whom.

Satisfied with what he’d seen, Poison went back into the main room, closing the door behind him. The morning broadcast was giving the traffic report as Poison entered, Dr. D’s jazzy voice discussing the known patrols and zones for the day. Ghoul was now sitting up in the booth in which he’d fallen asleep, trying to crack his neck. The bench apparently had not been nice to his spine during his slumber.

“How you feelin?” Poison asked, slipping into the bench across from him, just to get a better look at his inky-haired companion. In all honesty, Ghoul looked like shit. The dark rings around his eyes made him look like he’d been dragged behind a car for fifty miles or lost a fight with a bear. Or both.

Ghoul felt the way he looked, his whole body aching. Something was clearly not sitting right inside him, but, as was the Killjoy way, he would never express his terrible discomfort to his leader and partner. He gave his best weak smile and thumbs-up, but Poison was not convinced. The redhead’s eyebrows went up in a way that clearly doubted his partner’s integrity and sanity, both of which could easily be questioned at this moment.

“Whaddaya need, babe?” Ghoul asked, his tone full of sleep and words a bit slurred. Poison leaned forward, still looking across at sleepy and beaten Ghoul, who was barely awake and barely functioning. “I wanna do somethin’.”

Fun Ghoul reached out his hands in a useless effort to offer them in some form of work, but they were left to lie on the table as Poison shook his head.

“I got nothing for ya,” The fire-headed teen said, sounding a lot perkier than he felt. He was pretty damn tired himself, but if they were both tired nothing would get done. So instead, he smiled at Ghoul, finding him more than a bit adorable as he sleepily offered his hands. Just to give the kid something to hold on to, he put one of his own into Ghoul’s. “Until everyone else wakes up, we’re on our own.”

“Mm… on our own?” Ghoul said, his sleepy smile slowly morphing into that shit-eating grin Poison knew all too well. The short Killjoy took both of Poison’s hands and started to lean forward across the table, spewing a tone of false distress. “Man… wattawe gonna we do…?”

The redhead locked his fingers with his partner’s, his eyes fixed on the boy’s beautiful lips. They were so close, Poison could practically taste him. Suddenly, a small blur of color came busting into the room, plowing across the bench and into Poison, flinging her arms around his neck. Dressed only in a big baggy T-Shirt, the Girl had come charging out of the back room as if her hair was ablaze. “You’re back!” She squealed, squeezing the redhead tight and planting a small kiss on his cheek.

“Augh! Good morning, Monkey!” Poison said. He kissed her forehead, grinning at her. She was surprisingly vibrant for being up so early.

“Jet wouldn’t let me stay up to see you come home,” She said, a hint of a pout in her voice. Clearly she did not like being forced to sleep. Poison could only imagine how they’d finally convinced her to lie down. No doubt they’d resorted to bribery.

“Well, we got in pretty late,” Poison reasoned. She liked to stay up and make sure the boys made it home safe, and honestly, her sweet face was a welcome sight after being on patrol all day. The Girl was even known to sneak out of bed just to greet them, despite being utterly exhausted herself. She’d probably had picked this up from the boys. They rarely slept, always concerned more about each other than their own health. “You would have been asleep by the time we got back, anyway.”

“Hey,” Ghoul piped up. “What about me? Don’t I get some love?”

The little girl smiled. She reached across the table, making grabby hands at Ghoul, who took her happily from the redhead. She threw her arms around the dark-haired boy, planting a kiss on his cheek. He winced at her tight grip, but smiled, returning her kiss with one of his own.

“Sleep well, Monkey?” Ghoul asked, brushing a bit of the Girl’s wild hair out of her eyes.  She gave an enthusiastic nod, and he grinned wider in response. His smile was massive, easily masking his exhaustion and pain. Poison alone could see the forgery, since he knew what to look for—the sagging lines, the exhausted frown when others weren’t looking. Be that as it may, Ghoul was a master at covering up, slapping on his dumbass, dopey dog smile and putting his forehead to the Girl’s.

“Did you take care of Jet and Kobra, like I told you to?” He asked her, mocking a serious tone. She gave another nod, clearly proud of accomplishing her task. Ghoul responded by booping her nose. “That’s my girl.”

Jet and Kobra both emerged shortly after, still in the process of shaking the sleep from their heads, but glad to see the other two were home and safe. Poison got up from the booth then, listing off what needed to be done that day.

“It’s not a ton,” he assured them. “We’re gonna hit the station, fuel up the wagon, sell some of Ghoul’s cans, get some patrols out of the way, and then  _maybe—_ if we have time—we can hit up the concert district and see what’s going on.”

The Girl cheered and the other Killjoys were clearly interested now. Listening to the music that other zone runners wrote and performed was a special treat that the tiny ragtag group didn’t get to do often. They were always so busy running around, saving things and destroying stuff. Poison raised a finger. “But that’s only if we have time. We’ve got jobs to do first.”

With that, they dissolved into usual morning habits. The Girl scampered off to get dressed and while the other Killjoys dressed themselves in the clothes they’d shed on the random assembly of objects in the room the night before. Falling into routine, the boys all started to wake up, excited and eager as they pulled on their jackets—except Jet Star, who’d slept in his—and holsters from wherever they’d left them around the room.

Things tended to collect in the old diner, the most random items popping up from a patrol or gifts from other factions and added to their clutter. No Killjoy had the time to clean out the stuff, and no one wanted to. Instead, they worked around it, hanging jackets on the backs of chairs and piling maps atop the old piano that hadn’t worked in years. It wasn’t the perfect system, but it worked.

Once dressed, Kobra went up to the counter and opened four of the less valuable cans to eat for breakfast. Ghoul, at a lack of something better to do, popped up behind him and sneered at his selection.

“Dog food?” He groaned and pretended to gag. “Nasty.”

“Oh shut it,” Kobra said. “Better ‘n ‘meal in a can.’” The tall blond boy turned, standing a good four inches taller than the inky-haired killjoy. He handed Ghoul an open can of the moist brown bits and a fork.

“’least meal in a can is made for _people_ …” Ghoul muttered as he took a bite, his face expressing what everyone else was thinking. Clearly, he was not impressed.  Ah, but a meal was a meal, and when in the desert, you tended to have to make the best of whatever you got. They had work to do and there was no time to sit around and be picky.

~

“KEEP GOING, MAN! WE GOT THIS.”

Poison did as told, pushing the ‘Wagon to go just a little bit faster, hoping to outrun their pursuit. In the rearview, Poison could see two Dracs on bikes; they were accompanied by a car with at least one S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W-level exterminator in it. What had started as a basic patrol quickly turned into tearing through the desert, simply trying to get away.

Ghoul and Jet were poised on either side of the car, firing back at their pursuers with their torsos poked up through the t-tops. Ghoul was dual wielding, focusing his fire on the car, it’s tires, windows and occupants, while Jet was shooting at the two Dracs on the cycles. Kobra offered whatever help he could from up front, but was mostly just telling the Girl to keep her head down. She did, for a while, but every minute or so would poke her head back up, curious, making Kobra have to repeat his very necessary warning. Poison was trying not to lose anyone out the side while he drove like a madman down the road—one of the few remaining actual roads out in the desert.

They’d been hailed via radio by one of the Killjoys at the station that there was some serious distortion and static coming from zone six, out in the middle of nowhere. Poison and his squad were due for a patrol out that way to begin with, so they’d agreed to check it out. What they  _hadn’t_ counted on was BLI going to check it out too. Whatever it was, an exterminator had come along, so clearly they expected trouble. That being said, Poison had a feeling the Killjoys weren’t the trouble they were expecting.

Regardless, the neon kids in their hand-painted car now had the BLI patrol’s full and undivided attention. Things were just starting to look a bit bleak for the Fab Four until Ghoul hit his mark on the front tire of the shiny black car. It swerved and crashed into a telephone pole—a fortuitous landmark, as there were no real lines left, just the remnants, like bones scattering the wasteland. Following protocol, and having no way of realizing how stupid they were being, the Draculoids on the bikes pulled over to make sure their leader was okay.

With a holler and a hoot from the occupants of the ‘Wagon, Poison turned off the road, roaring into the desert dust. Whatever BLI was looking at, the redhead intended to get there first and take whatever it was before BLI could get their greedy hands on it. But they weren’t out of the woods yet, as Draculoids popped out from behind the rocks on the hill and began firing at the Killjoys

“Looks like there’s only two of ‘em,” observed Jet Star, reaching for something below Kobra’s seat. The Girl’s grin and Ghoul’s enthusiastic chuckle informed the redhead what it was before she even saw it. “Rocket launcher time!” Jet exclaimed, already holding the thing and smiling eagerly.

Poison grinned, about to give the go ahead, when the Girl chimed in, pleading, “Oh, can I shoot it? Please?” She looked from Jet to Poison and back again, but it was Ghoul who grabbed the thing and told her to come up by him.

He helped her get situated, putting a hand against the side of the launcher to help steady it for her and instructing her precisely how to operate the weapon. He also added that it was technically not an anti-personnel weapon, but an anti-vehicle one. She’d responded that they were shooting _from_ a car. They both guffawed as the Girl lined up her shot.

Squeezing the trigger mechanism, it was she who let the rocket fly. They all watched as the rocks exploded, causing the two Dracs to sail through the air and crash into the ground.

Laughter erupted from the whole ‘Wagon as they watched the black and red firework dissipate, but no one grinned bigger than their Girl. She giggled and screamed with excitement. Holding the launcher up in the air, she waved it like a trophy. Jet took it from her with a kiss pressed to her head before he slipped it under the chair again. It would likely be some time before they’d get the chance to use it; rockets weren’t exactly plentiful.

“Rockin awesome, girlfriend!” Poison crowed from the front seat. Jet laughed and offered a fist for the young girl to bump, which she did, glowing with pride.

Kobra nodded in agreement, holding out a hand for her to high-five. “That was a damn good shot, man.”

Flexing his arms dramatically and showing off his best smolder, Ghoul gave a labored sigh. “Yeah… learned from the best, I’d say.” This earned him a smack from Jet and a giggle from the small girl next to him.  “Hey! Mean.”

They were all so excited about the Girl’s success that they barely noticed Poison slowing down until the car came to a complete stop, jerking everyone forward a bit. All eyes went to the redhead, who was looking out across the empty desert. Kobra was about to ask why they’d stopped when he saw what Poison was looking at.

Gleaming in the sun, just at the bottom of the slight hill atop which they were perched was a small, silver BLI camera, slowly oscillating from its original setting. It had arisen from the dirt, a circle of ground, sand, and plants placed thereupon it for camouflage.

Whatever was going on, it was important enough to make BLI turn on their old security systems. They’d long since ditched the camera holes, since the useless things broke easily and the corporate conglomerate soon realized that trying to send maintenance into enemy territory was a very bad idea.

“Masks on,” was all Poison offered, parking the ‘Wagon as he spoke. “We’re going off radar.” He hopped over the driver door and tossed the keys to Jet. The fluffy haired teen caught them, then leapt over his own door to help grab the masks and helmets from the old car’s trunk. Poison grabbed Ghoul’s green and pink mask, tossing it to him as he shouldered the blue and white Mousekat head. With a proud smirk, he said, “Whatever BLI’s looking at over there, we’re gonna get it first.”

And with that, he donned the fuzzy blue animal head and started walking, with his casual stride, across the desert dirt.

~

They’d made it to the middle of nowhere when the Dracs came flooding out from among the rocks. The Killjoys, who’d ditched their masks once they’d gone several miles without seeing another camera, instantly pulled out their blasters and formed a barrier in front of the Girl.

 _Shit,_  Poison thought,  _shit, we should’ve left her with Dr. D!_  Now the Girl was in the middle of a firefight with them. Blasts were flying every which way. The good guys were outnumbered, about six to one, but they could still come out on top with a few tricks. However, Poison did want to do anything until the Girl was safe. Not wanting to look away from the fight, he just yelled, knowing she was listening. “Okay, baby, you’re gonna have to run!”

But to where? He looked around, still firing, but trying to plan at the same time. Gesturing with his head, he pointed out two rocks about ten yards from them. “Head out between those two rocks and run till you can’t see us. Hunker down and we’ll come get you when it’s done. Sound good, baby?” She gave solid yes, and the redhead turned his orders to the others. “Jet, Kobra, cover the Girl!”

“Roger roger,” Jet said, turning his blue blaster on the white-masked creeps, starting to try and creep behind the Killjoys to surround them.

“Run fast, chick,” Kobra said, doing the same thing on the other side. He shot the Girl a quick smile. She returned with a much more hesitant one, but was clearly planning on running as fast as she could and then some.

“GO!” Poison yelled, voice sharp.

The Girl booked it as fast as her legs could carry her, a small dash of color. A few Dracs went for her, but were easily taken out by the Killjoys who were focused only on protecting her. She didn’t look back once, but just kept running, trusting that the boys who’d raised her would continue to keep her as safe as they ever had. The redhead couldn’t help but smile. For being young, she was so smart and so brave.

Once she was over the hill, the Killjoys split up, taking on small groups of the white-suited foot soldiers. Poison alternated between shooting and just punching the damn things. Kobra had found grabbing them by the throat was affective, along with using his fists. Ghoul had taken on three at a time for some idiot reason and was almost pushed on the ground, when he surprisingly rose up, throwing one off his back, another off his arm, and hitting the third in the face. From there he whipped out his blaster and nailed at least three more.

“I’m up to nine, Jet!” he crowed, looking over at the fluffy-haired Killjoy, beaming with smugness. “You need to keep up, dude!”

Jet looked at him and laughed. He was about to retort when he saw that shit-eating grin turn afraid. Just as the inky-haired boy was about to yell ‘look out,’ Jet turned his head and was met with a bottle to the face. The other Killjoys managed to get in a shot and take out the Drac, but Jet was already on the ground, covering his right eye as blood dripped from behind his hand.

Kobra was at his side first, letting Ghoul and Poison take out the last of the Dracs. Once all the stuffy, white-clad bodies were lying motionless on the ground, they joined the blonde boy, looking over Jet. The blue-jacketed Killjoy didn’t remove his hand, cringing in pain.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, shit!” He didn’t say anything but swear words for a good while. After a few minutes of cusswords with small breaks in between, he glanced up at Poison. “Go get the Girl. I’ll be fine.”

Kobra reached out to him again, making Jet wince, so clearly he wasn’t all _that_ fine, but he had a point: The Girl did need to be retrieved before someone else did. Poison put a hand on Kobra’s back.

“You stay with ‘im. I’ll be back with the Girl before ya know it.” Their leader looked at Jet, giving a reassuring smile. “Hang tight, man…”

“Here,” Ghoul said, holding out his hand once Party Poison had departed. “Lemme see it…”

Leaving the others to take control of the situation, Poison turned around, running off to try and find where the Girl had gone. He slid his yellow mask on, jumping over rocks and tearing through the dry desert scrub.

You’d think a small girl dressed in bright colors would be easy to find in the desert. But apparently, it was much harder than one would assume. Wherever she was, she was doing a pretty good job as staying hidden. He’d gone at least a half mile or so from the others and still hadn’t seen her, despite there being plenty of places for a girl her size to hide. The redhead was about to call out for her when he saw a small dust cloud just past a rock formation ahead of him.

Coming around the edge he saw his girl, standing in the middle of a dirt path, being tormented by two Dracs on bikes. One was spinning in circles around her, the other just sitting back, watching and laughing. Poison wanted to murder both of them then and there, but if he hit one, the other could grab the Girl. He had to wait for the right moment.

The circling Drac got off his bike and started toward the Girl, trying to get in her face, taunting her, mocking her, scaring her. It was grade-A schoolyard taunting, and it made the crimson-haired teen furious.

Poison fired, sending the white bastard flying. The Girl took off, running like the devil wouldn’t leave her alone. The Drac who was by his bike took off after her, not bothering to hop on the stupid thing, thinking it’d be easy to catch the small tyke.

Well, someone clearly never had to chase down a six-year-old to get her dressed in the morning.

She easily outran the white-masked man, covering a good distance of desert scrub before she made a crucial mistake in footing, causing her to slip and fall. The Drac had caught up in seconds. Once he was within a few feet, he began to take slow lumbering steps towards her, assured in his victory. She started trying to slowly scoot away, but it was no use. The Draculoid soldier clenched and unclenched his hands, throwing back his head and letting out a sick laugh in victory. He had won. He had the Girl.

That is, he’d  _had_  the Girl up until the point that Poison put a laser blast through his head, courtesy, some BLI vending machine and a shitload of yellow paint.

At the sight of the fire-headed Killjoy, the Girl lit up, grinning. She giggled as Poison blew the end of the barrel of his blaster, as if it were one of the “ye olde” analog weapons from way back in the day. Scrambling to her feet, she tackled Poison with a hug—or at least tried to. It was hard to tackle someone who was twice your size, though that fact hardly stopped the Girl. He picked her up and held her tight.

“You’re safe, baby,” the teen said, entangling one hand in her wild hair, holding her close to him. She nuzzled her tiny face in his shoulder, like she did before he put her down to sleep at night. She felt completely safe in his arms. The Girl knew he’d do anything to protect her, going to the ends of the earth to rescue her. Neither of them realized just how soon this fact would be proven.

“Can we go back to the others?” She asked quietly. It was clear she’d been scared, but didn’t want to appear that way to Poison. She had to be brave.

The redhead smiled, setting her back down and taking her hand, giving it a loving squeeze. “Sure thing, baby. Let’s go.”

~

Poison woke up on the ground. Everything hurt and he could barely move. It took effort to breathe almost. He had not opened his eyes yet, the smoke in the air making him afraid what he’d see when he did. He wasn’t sure where he was, his brain not quite catching up with the rest of his body.

Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, he opened his eyes. It took him a few moments to process the things he saw. It was like a scene from his nightmares. His friends, partners, and people he loved dearly were lying on the ground, motionless. Kobra lay on his side, just out of Poison’s reach, with Jet on his back behind him, neither were moving. Ghoul was just beyond them, his mask still on his head.

Poison tried to yell, call out to his best friends—asleep or dead he didn’t know—but his throat felt dry, coated with desert sand. He was filled with an icy dread and fear. This only multiplied when he saw what was above him.

Korse stood, looming over him, like the angel of death incarnate. The Dracs behind him didn’t seem all that threatening until Poison realized that blur of color they were holding was his Girl, his dear, sweet Girl.

No, this was a nightmare. This was a bad dream. It had to be, but the pain his body and head told him it was not.

With no strength to do anything but move his eyes, Poison’s gaze settled once again on the bald man in the fancy attire, pointing a white blaster at the red-haired teen. He waited for the man to pull the trigger and just end it; just finish off his job so he could go back to Bat’ City and sleep well tonight in the immaculate black and grey dome of artificial BLIss and let the rest of the world rot. Poison waited…

But it never came.

Instead, Korse lowered his weapon and hissed words that the redhead could clearly hear, despite the blackness hovering at the edge of his vision, making everything seem far away.

“Keep. Running.”

That was all he said, leaving Poison to lie there in the dirt as he blacked out once again, the Girl’s desperate grunts the last sounds to enter his ears as he slipped back under and into darkness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! This is Duchess, the other author, and I gotta say, I'm really glad I can finally talk to you all! You guys have been so sweet and kind, it really warms my heart, thank you. And I know my Co-Author is just as grateful.
> 
> For those of you still worried about the Young Bloods, don't flip, the zipper's closing up. They'll come along soon. To reiterate, Our goal is to post the first of each month. We're working a few chapters in advance just to keep that up and we're so excited for you to see it!!
> 
> Again, thank you so much for your attention and kind words. We hope to see you all again next month!


	5. 20 Dollar Nose Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could shit possibly be hitting the proverbial fan more thoroughly for the Young Bloods than it already has? 
> 
> Their recent ass-kicking is about to be upstaged by something a little more colorful and post-apocalyptic. Laser gunfights might will ensue. Oh yes, this day has reached an all new level of suck for Pete and Patrick as they stumble headlong into a godless, shadeless wasteland. Is this the end for our would-be heroes, or just another ugly beginning?

_“Goes to the desert the same war his dad rehearsed. Came back with flags on coffins and said ‘We won, oh we won’.”_

~

            The sun battered the two dazed men ceaselessly and with no sign of showing mercy. Not a cloud floated over, only those deadly, golden rays and a whole lot of blue. It would have been beautiful from inside an air-conditioned home but this was fucking brutal.

Patrick lay almost motionless, back propped on a rock. He looked like death warmed over, especially in the natural lighting of that oppressive sun. Stirring, he took a shaky breath, and cradled his hook close, squinting hard, looking around. Just then, he was wishing for that silly hat he always wore.

"We're not...." He wanted to say 'in Kansas anymore' but the presence of rocks and Pete's decent throwing arm stopped him. "C'mon let's...ah..."

Let's what? What the fuck were they supposed to do? They were stuck in the middle of God-knows-where with no end in sight. Whatever they were ‘supposed to do’ had flown out the window long ago. Now it was just a couple of assholes trying to survive in the desert. To add to Patrick’s distress, he suddenly remembered the bolt in Pete's back. He wanted nothing more than to pull it out, but knew removing something like that might end up doing more harm than good, inviting infection and an unplanned leak. "Can you....move?"

Pete grunted as he sat up. Fuck, there was so much pain… He really shouldn't have doubted that chick’s weapons, strange-looking as they might have been. What was her name again? Hannah, right? Fuck, he didn’t know. What he did know was that her armaments were highly effective. They worked really well. A bit too well, actually.

The bassist looked around. There was nothing but desert for miles, save a blob on the horizon that could possibly have been either a city, or his sun-addled brain fucking with him. Instead of considering the implications of _that,_ he focused on his body. He could move, but to what extent?

"Probably. Help me up, will ya?" Pete put his arm out for his small companion, intent on using him as leverage to stand. The motion hurt like hell, but he was confident he could do it. And he’d _need_ to do it quickly, as the sun showed no signs of quitting on its rounds.

As such, finding and utilizing shade was priority one. Patrick was slowly beginning to realize that they'd be thinking in small steps from here on out—wherever here was. One thing at a time would have to do. As the vocalist aided his friend in standing, he simultaneously cursed his inability to make a better decision than walking through some unknown goddamn portal thing. They could've been killed.

But, death might have been a better ending than what had happened instead. The situation had gone from bizarre and hopeless to just plain hopeless. With one of Pete's tattooed arms over his shoulders, Patrick wrapped his other arm—the left one—around the bassist's waist to support him. The ginger took great care not to hook his friend in the gut. Pete chuckled dryly, his tone mimicking the wasteland all around them.

"You're really starting to get the hang of that hook there, Pat’," he complimented. It wasn't much, but it was something to keep his mind focused on moving and not the bolt in his back that sent a sharp twinge shooting down his spine just a bit with every single step. Breathing was important too, he reminded himself. Breathe in, step-step, breathe out, step-step. It was a rhythm, a pattern; that's what each motion had to become in order for the bassist to stay on his feet.

There were rock formations dotting the landscape and it was toward one of these the ginger had begun leading his companion. The black blob on the horizon—whatever it was—would be getting no closer before they both died of heat exhaustion. In the end, they would be thankful for that fact, but for now, both men were concentrating solely on getting out of the sun.

The desert shimmered on, mocking them. Patrick shook off the dismay and took a deep breath. _One foot in front of the other_. He proceeded like this with Pete hanging on him for another ten minutes before his chosen formation was close enough to spit on. It was something of a cave of massive, red-brown rocks which made the ginger woefully uncomfortable—something about the thought of being crushed upset him—but they had no other option.

He lowered Pete to the ground in the cool of the shady outcroppings. Sighing then, he stumbled backward, grateful for a moment’s respite. He was exhausted. This week had not been kind to him at all. But at least now he and Pete were out of the sun.

As if in mocking answer to his relief, strange, old movie laser sounds ripped through the silence and heat of the desert air and just about drove the little ginger’s heart from his chest. The noises even awoke the dazed bassist.

"What the fuck was that?!" Pete snarled, jarring the bolt in his back. This brought a cry of agony from his lips nipping on the heels of his exclamation. He silenced himself shortly, not wanting to upset Patrick. The ginger was much too occupied with the weird disturbance to notice his friend’s pain, much to Pete’s sour delight.

Had they landed in the middle of a movie set? There should at least be 100 some odd people to help with that, then, right? It took big crews for that kind of thing. Both men were utterly befuddled. Shit was getting weirder, though their unique perception could have been due to exposure. Pete just wanted to sleep and wake up back at home and never think about brief cases, or anti-rock cult models, or bass machetes or dead best friends.

“C-can I sit…?” Patrick asked his companion, gesturing to a spot nearby. The weird sounds had freaked the vocalist right out, but he needed to get off his feet before he fell. Patrick had a feeling Pete didn't exactly feel comfortable around him anymore—hence his asking permission. Anyway, after what _he’d_ done, who would? He was a murderer, and who knew when he’d lose his shit again?

Pete _was_ unsettled, but he’d never show it. He’d spent years protecting his sweet, angelic ‘Trick from the paparazzi and all manner of bad publicity and hatred. In the end, however, it seemed that he could not protect the little guy from himself. Slowly, Pete nodded.

“Yeah—you prolly…prolly should,” his words came slowly, dragging free from his mouth with great effort.

As Patrick plopped in the dust nearby, he recognized presently the roar of a motor. It approached gradually, getting louder and louder. Suddenly, the howling roar shot by them. Whatever it was sounded big, like a couple of muscle cars or something—and a sci-fi film, with all those laser sounds. Patrick didn't look, as he was too busy ducking behind the rocks with his partner.

Pete had also ducked at the sound, but was ballsy enough to peer over the edge as the cars drove off. They were mostly some white company vans for some group whose logo he did not recognize, but in between was a guy in a weird mask on a motorcycle. Leading the pack were a pair of muscle cars of similar make, though one was sleek black, and the other was grafitti’d all to hell. Pete blinked. Maybe the sun was just getting to him. He was decidedly not a desert person.

"...was... was that guy wearing a white gorilla mask?" He asked. Maybe he was going crazy. He was still stuck with a drumstick-bolt in the middle of his back, and probably losing blood, or his pain receptors were overloading. But his head was relatively clear and given that, he was still sure something just wasn’t adding up. " 'Trick, I got a bad feeling about this place."

Patrick nodded his acknowledgement at Pete’s observation. The "Society for Stating the Obvious" would be giving a certain bassist many awards this year. Patrick could almost hear the applause, see the red carpet. The ginger burst into laughter. It wasn't particularly funny laughter, more like the hysteria of knowing you were royally, painfully, fucked. They sat in bizarre silence, then, the quietude only interrupted by the screech of tires, a couple explosions and those weird-as-hell laser sounds.

"Stay there..." Patrick mumbled, deciding to make a move after a bit. He worked his way around the rock to the other side, his curiosity and need to know whether or not they were safe overwhelming his desire to keep hiding. In the distance, not too far off, he could see four terribly colorful shapes lying in the dust. Pete laughed dryly.

"Damn, I was gonna try and hitch a ride with those guys and leave your punk ass behind," he muttered, still peering over the rock. Patrick was probably out of range, but he said it anyway, more for his own amusement than anything else. Joking about the situation helped; it was his last line of defense.

The vocalist wasn’t listening at all, instead curious as to the status of the colorful figures. Three vehicles were speeding away. One was a black muscle car, the other two appeared to be vans. The cloud of dust they left was spectacular. He inched his way around the rock to get a better look as the guys on the dirt began to get up and take stock of their injuries.

~

Poison groaned as he rolled on his side, his vision blurred, face contorted with pain. Korse was going to burn in hell and Poison was going to be the one to send him there. His mask was practically falling off and everything smelled like smoke, but he was still alive. That was the important part. He had to fight to sit up, doing a head count. Jet, Kobra, Ghoul. None of them were moving. He tried to get to his feet, but his legs gave out, dropping him to the desert floor. He then devised a different strategy, and started to yell to his companions.

"Killjoys... answer me!" He was hysterical, but it worked. Kobra Kid gave a quiet groan in response, and Jet Star was starting to roll over. Poison looked over at Ghoul. "Ghoul, you better not be lying down on me again..." he said, trying to keep himself together, waiting for anything from his partner.

For the first time in two days, Ghoul was actually asleep. One of the lasers had scored him across the shoulder—a flesh wound but shockingly painful enough to put him down and out. He didn't move but it wasn't the stillness of death. Golden brown eyes were closed against the glare of the sun and an exhausted body had just...given out. He snoozed as if nothing was wrong. His dreams were awash with soft thoughts, things he'd held back, things he knew he should tell Poison before—

Ghoul jerked awake. "Aye-aye bro—ten-four an' shit." He pushed himself upright and turned to look at their raggedy-ass band. _'Wow, we suck,'_ was the first thought that came to his mind. Poison sighed in relief.

"…good to hear, b—” he almost let one of their private, affectionate names slip out, changing it at the last second to “Brother.”

God, those BLI losers were terrible shots, and good thing, too; that being said, it hadn’t stopped them taking the Girl. Poison tried standing again, this time with greater success. He shoulders dropped a bit as his last memory before blacking out came back. All he could recall was Korse, towering over him—over them all—and grunting:

_“Keep running.”_

"They got her..." Poison bit his lip, looking around. There was no point in trying to follow them. The Wagon was too far away and the enemy had a pretty big head start. Half of the Killjoys weren't even standing yet. Frustrated, Poison kicked a rock, sending it flying. It hurt his toes, but the pain only registered for a moment before being overtaken by rage. Everything hurt. Just add it to the fucking collection. "Shit, they got her..."

Ghoul shook his head to clear it. He wasn't suffering a headache anymore, which was good, or perhaps he was and he just couldn’t tell through the rest of the aching. The guy might've been hemorrhaging for all he knew, but for now he felt fine. Shoving some hair out of his face, he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. He noticed a sharp, radiating pain on the right side of his jaw, but did not investigate further.

"We fucked up," he groaned, offering a hand to Jet. The fluff-haired Killjoy grunted acknowledgement of Ghoul’s point and took his hand, allowing the short one to help him up. He looked just as broken as everyone else at this point; they were a truly pathetic sight. Ghoul gripped Jet Star’s face in both hands and tilted his head this way and that. He hissed through his teeth.

“Bad?” Jet hated asking, given their situation, but blood was clouding the vision of his right eye. Ghoul shook his head and clicked his tongue. With his head clearer due to the recent knocking about, he was able to assess that the eye would probably be useless, at least without proper medical attention. Fortunately, every BLI vending machine had a bunch of stupid gag gifts and novelty shit, like eye patches.

“Yo, Poison, gimme that dumbass eye patch you picked up at that vending machine in Zone 3,” the short Killjoy called, snapping his fingers whilst not turning his gaze from Jet’s, compelling the other teen to keep looking at him. The flame-haired teen moved quickly to his companion’s call, digging the patch out of one of his pockets. Ghoul reached around behind Jet’s neck and loosed his bandanna, pressing it to the bleeding Killjoy’s right eye.

“What’m I supposed to do with that little thing when I’m bleeding like a stuck hog?” Jet grumbled, using an old-fashioned colloquialism he’d probably picked up from Dr. Death Defying.

“Hold this on it ‘til it stops runnin’ like my shit after microwave bean burritos,” Ghoul snapped in response, thrusting the eye patch into his hand. Poison couldn’t help chuckling just a little at that last bit as he dragged himself over to where Kobra Kid was still prostrate on the desert floor. The sun shone on the just and the unjust alike, evidently—the assholes and the poor kids just trying to get along.

The leader of their less-than-merry band helped his brother back on his feet, handing him his 'GOOD LUCK' helmet from the dry ground. Kobra's face was as set as Poison's, both thinking the same thoughts. They all loved the Girl. She was a key part of this rag tag family of misfits. They raised her, they taught her to survive, and now they’d lost her. This wasn’t just a blow to their collective ego; it was a kick in the groin of their dysfunctional family unit.

After making sure Kobra wasn't going to vomit or pass out, Poison started to climb the hill. He looked across the desert flatland, observing three small dots far in the distance, figuring the heat and light were the only reasons he could even see the transport in the first place. They'd reach Bat’ City before the killjoys could even dream about catching up.

"Shit," Poison growled, jaw tight. It was unavoidable. They’d lost. End of story. He started to turn around to go back down and rejoin his team when a slight movement behind some rocks caught his eye. Pulling out his yellow blaster, he stepped forward. "...Who's there?"

Patrick, who’d been hiding, was scared shitless for the millionth time that day. Was it even the same day? His heart pounded and he prayed they hadn't seen Pete yet—whoever _they_ were. Something said hiding would get him fucked faster than stepping out…so he did just that, hand and ah...not hand skyward.

"Ah—I uh...n-no one...really I..." For being the fabulous lyricist and vocalist he was, words failed the ginger, who in the presence of the young man with a yellow blaster and hair that resembled a fire truck was not feeling quite so ginger.

"Whoa—check out that retro shit he's got on," Ghoul observed, shielding his eyes to get a better look at the man’s black pants and leather jacket. It was like this guy was begging for heat stroke. It was stylish as hell, but way too hot. The air hazed around them as Ghoul pulled his own blaster from the docker's clutch under one arm. "Want me to check 'im out?"

Poison didn't know what to make of this character. He looked straight out of one of Dr. D’s tales of the Young Blood’s or something, one of the old fashioned rock ‘n rollers. You’d think someone who lived in the desert would have the sense to wear something that wasn’t completely black. The redhead gave a nod to Ghoul. "Give him a pat down. See what he's got on him. Watch out for that hook, though..."

Looking the man up and down, more and more questions started to come. Poison had never seen this man before, which was a bit odd, considering he knew most of the Killjoys, and that most Killjoys were younger. This dude didn’t look super-old but something about him said he wasn’t a teenager, either. His people had been babies and 10-year-olds liberated by punks in their 20's and teens, inspired by the Young Blood movement. This cat was 30 at least. He didn't look like a BLI spy... but one never knew. After the thrashing they’d just received, Party Poison was apt to believe just about anyone he didn’t immediately recognize was BLI, just because he _really_ wanted to shoot something.

Ghoul approached the ginger with a slow, shit-eating grin on his face. It was his default expression but Patrick didn't know that. Even if he had, it wouldn't have comforted him. The dark-haired teen moved closer, comical blaster drawn. Patrick saw the sear in Ghoul's shirt on his shoulder and the nasty burn gash on his jaw and decided not to laugh at the fact that the gun _looked_ like a dime-store novelty—it clearly was not. He continued instead to pray that Pete kept his damn mouth shut. The Killjoy holstered the weapon and eyed Pat's hook.

"Gnarly shit there, man—you're really ah...authentic, aren't ya?" There were peripheral rumors that one of the Young Bloods had a hook hand but it was just an auxiliary tale, something to make the story more dynamic, right? "Arms out, old guy."

"I'm twenty fuckin' nine," Patrick spat, doing as he was told, surprised by the dark-haired teen's sass, and his own response, which Pete might have deemed Pat-itude. "What're you like...ten?"

Ghoul clicked his tongue and chuckled, still wearing that strangely murderous grin. "Stuff it, shorty," He said as he patted the Youngblood down. When Ghoul stood back up, he looked over his shoulder to his partner. "He's clean—weird as fuck, but totally unarmed."

Poison smiled at his companion. "Thanks Ghoul." He looked back at Patrick, still wondering what this clown was doing. "Try to remember who's the one holding the blaster here, if you would,” he said, knowing full well he had the ginger’s attention.

The scarlet-headed teen looked the man up and down again. He looked like he’d hopped straight out of one of Doctor D's old photographs of the way things used to be. His outfit was so accurate, it was ridiculous. Clearly, he was a big fan of the Young Bloods.

"So... Either you're some Young Blood diehard who's also a complete dumbass," if you were a real Young Blood wannabe, why wouldn't you have a weapon at the very least? "Or you're some BLI spy who is REALLY bad at his job. Either way…" Poison used his other hand to cock the blaster "…you've got less than a minute to tell us what you're doing out here."

"Holy smokes," Pat' hissed. Ghoul stepped away, enough to be out of safe range for ricochet but close enough that he could catch the feeble ginger if the little dude started running. Ghoul was used to being the shortest but he was _completely_ out-tinied by this guy. He chewed his lower lip listening to the way Poison commanded respect and attention; it made him hot. He had to shake himself back to reality after a second of _that_ shit.

"Better start talkin'," Ghoul warned.

"Ah oh—okay well..." Patrick’s eyes darted this way and that for a plausible place to start. He had to be careful not to mention Pete. "This ah...portal thing started up and I went through it 'cause ...y'know these _women_ were after me and junk; all I wanted to do was stop 'em takin' our sound..." He really did mean every word, goofy as it sounded. Again, his masterful lyricism failed him miserably. "I'm Patrick—that's...my name and..." He trailed off. "I fucked up."

Poison blinked a few times, confused. This guy was shitting him. Had to be. "Patrick...? Really?" He lowered the blaster a bit. "God, you're almost too pathetic to shoot." He chuckled a little bit. "I don't know what era you seem to be stuck in, but... The Young Bloods are dead. Fun bed time story, I know, but seriously? You should probably let it go."

He was about to take his own advice and let the strange man go, when the sound of coughing and retching came from further down the hill, near where ‘Patrick’ had popped up. Poison's gun was up again, aimed directly at Patrick’s chest.

"Ghoul, Kobra, check it out,” he barked.

Patrick twitched, his first instinct being to protect Pete. But if he moved, he was sure this little asshole with the crazy red hair—he'd reduced it to crazy because he was moderately jealous of its hue—would gun him the fuck down. He was more pissed than scared now and focused on the kid holding the gun on him.

"Th' hell’s that mean?" He barked, still hung on Poison’s last words to him. "Bed time story?"

"Dude...drop it," Ghoul was unimpressed. He crossed his arms. "Anyway, the real one was prolly taller—"

"Augh, ya know what? Fuck off, kid." The anger took over and Patrick whirled, ducking back behind the rock to see if Pete was even still alive. The ginger knew he was cutting it close by dashing off like that but Pete was in a bad way—what with a hunk of wood jammed through his back and god knew what else. Weird teens with toy guns be damned, his bassist was all he had left in this fucked up costume party. The heat could not have been doing the poor fellow any favors. They were hardly dressed for the goddamn Sahara.

Pete, having been left alone and losing a steady trickle of blood, was going in and out of focus. The red stuff felt like it was everywhere. He was starting to hack up the stuff, leaving a bitter, metalic taste in his mouth He wanted water so bad. This hot sun was not doing him any favors. He could hear voices, but the words were hard to make out. He wanted to sleep, just go to sleep.

"Pete—" Patrick hissed, dropping to one knee next to where he'd set his companion. The bassist was worse-looking than when Patrick left him. The ginger felt Pete's back. Even though the hole was technically plugged, he was soaked with warm, red stuff. The ginger's hand was fucking filthy so he felt his friend's temperature with full, soft lips. He was burning up. "D-dammit—are you kidding me?" He stuttered, snarling skyward. Things had gone from shitty to pandemonium-level in a very short amount of time.

Poison circumvented the rock after Ghoul, so very close to shooting Patrick until he saw Pete. Blood was all over the back of the guy’s shirt and the man looked completely dazed. Poison took particular note of the tattoos on his arms. They seemed very familiar, but... from what, he couldn't remember. Walking around the odd pair, the Fab Four’s leader stared at the source of the injury.

"What the fuck...?" Who used analog weapons anymore? Those things were fucking antiques, and Poison had never seen one that shot wooden projectiles in his lifetime. It wasn't the fucking Stone Age anymore. There was no way this was BLI, not a chance; that much was clear. So what were they...? Poison didn't know. What he _did_ know was that this fucker was assuredly going to die if they didn't do something.

"Jet, Kobra, you guys go grab the Wagon. Bring 'er here. We'll take 'em to the diner," he commanded. Both nodded, said they'd be back in a flash, and ran off, masks back on. Poison looked up at Patrick. "You, put 'em on his side or he'll choke on his own blood." He reached out to help the bleeding man, but he kept his eyes on Patrick. "And take off your shirt."

Pete could barely tell what was going on around him. He could see a vague, primary-colored blob that seemed to be talking. The only thing that made sense was that Patrick was there and holding onto him.

"...Pat," he cracked out. "Did... did a tomato just tell you to take your shirt off...?"

"Ah—yeah, I think it did," Patrick responded to Pete's query, trying to keep his friend as calm as possible. "Hey, do me a favor an' turn over...onto your side, okay?"

Pete was not in the state of mind to ask why. He turned on his side, groaning and spitting a bit as he did. Patrick aided as best he could. Once that was done, he did as instructed and, after shrugging out of his leather jacket, peeled his shirt off. Even after replacing his jacket, he felt exposed and helpless, what with missing a rather essential limb and being shirtless in the fucking desert, and all.

Poison got on his knees on the other side of Pete and snatched the shirt from the shorter man's hand, put it around the weird... stick... bolt…thing, and started to put pressure on it. He would've made Patrick do it, but something told him the hook would be a problem.

"What's this guy's name?" Poison asked, his joking tone bleeding acidic from red lips, "Andy?"

"That's Pete," Patrick replied, wondering how the flame-haired, blaster-wielding oddball knew the names of anyone in their band. "Andy's our drummer."

The answer came so naturally it only struck Patrick moments later that Andy was probably dead. He hadn't seen the guy since he'd been hauled off to the slammer for murdering Joe. Oh god, he hated himself. The distress was visible on his soft features.

Fun Ghoul raised a brow at the response and looked to his partner for a split second, who was clearly thinking the same thing. Poison’s brow just stared at Patrick like he had three heads.

"What breed of crazy are you, mister?" he asked.

Just then, the familiar roar of the wagon pulled up. "’Bout time, Jet!" the redhead yelled, to which Jet Star raised a middle finger as he and Kobra climbed out. The Killjoy leader grabbed Pat's good hand, putting it on the shirt. "Keep pressure on it," he commanded, getting up and walking over to his companions.

Pete mumbled something akin to “ow” in the meantime and Patrick muttered back some feeble words of comfort. Saying they were “in a bad way” would be putting it so mildly, it would have been insulting.

"Alright... seating chart," Poison said, swinging his hands a bit as he plotted this out in his head. He jerked his thumb at himself, "I’m driver. I'll take Stump Wannabe up front; one of you guys keep your blasters ready, case he tries anything...,” he said, sending a slight glance at the two strange men behind him. “We can put Dark ‘n’ Bloody in the open trunk and have someone in with him.” He pointed to Kobra. “Kid, I'm gonna put you on that. Make sure he stays breathing and awake," Poison commanded the blonde Killjoy, who nodded. "...Now we just gotta move ‘em."

"Wouldya knock that off?" The ginger snapped at Poison, upon hearing the teen’s diminutive nickname for him. "My name is literally Patrick, okay? Geez—I mean what the heck am I supposed to call _you_ , anyway?" The Killjoys looked his way, but said nothing, just dropping their tones so he couldn’t hear them. Patrick grunted, focusing back on his bleeding bassist.

Pete was so warm, too hot to the touch. Shit, everything was hot, but inside, he was cold and starting to shiver with shock. His vision was blurry, what little he could maintain. The only consolation he had was Patrick was still with him.

"…'s bad, 'Trick. 's real bad," he muttered.

"I know," Patrick growled under his breath so only Pete could hear. He didn't add that he was thinking it was all his fault to begin with. That wouldn't help Pete. He also didn't add that at least they were being given aid, if at gunpoint.

Patrick knew his ignored raving didn't make a shitload of sense but the heat and the weaponry pointed at him was starting to make him a little—okay a lot crazy. Or maybe it was something else. His mind was beginning to sink to a familiar place, though Patrick didn't recognize it at all. He turned a now frightful amber gaze on his bassist. No one seemed to notice but Pete.

“C’mon, let’s move, assholes,” Poison snapped, urging the others to get to action. Jet went straight to rolling out a blanket, not wanting his precious Wagon stained again; Kobra stood nearby, offering assistance and keeping a close eye on their wild leader and the guys masquerading as Young Bloods. They intrigued him but he said nothing, preferring to watch, instead. The scarlet scalped boy, on the other hand, walked up to Patrick, whose gaze was fixed on his bloody partner.

"We can take you as far as Zone 4. You can find a call box or something, but you guys should get out of the heat. We will kill you if you try anything, but as long as you don't try and kill us, we’ll be good." He offered out a hand and a bit of a smile. "Call me Party Poison," he said as he wrapped up his brief introduction and _finally_ answered Patrick’s question.

"Yeah that's much fucking better than Patrick," snapped the short man, whose eyes were now decidedly yellow. He turned, confronting the young red-head with his sick amber eyes and a venomous sneer. "If he dies, you die." It wasn't the singer’s voice which snarled these words, but something else in him, feeding off the ginger’s rage.

Poison took a step back, but did not draw. Not just yet. This was definitely not the same guy. The change had been so sudden that the redhead hadn’t even noticed until those yellow circles were glaring at him. The remaining question was from whence this murderous rage had come?

"...I can't promise he won't bleed out, but I promise none of my guys will hurt him," he said calmly, holding his hands up just a bit to show he wasn’t dangerous. "He needs to get out of this sun... Zone four is just a few miles away..." He glanced down at the man between them who was still bleeding, the bolt sticking from his back. "...He'll die if we keep standing here talking."

Patrick's jaw was tight, his teeth practically snapping together as a growl roiled up from somewhere inside him that could not have possibly been there—not in a human being. Poison's words were reaching the part of him that was still the soft, tiny, vocalist. He breathed deeply once, twice and the sickly color faded from gentle, green eyes.

Ghoul exchanged looks with his partner, a brow raised. That subtle movement of facial features communicated that he was beginning to wonder if this guy was actually telling the truth, after all. But how?

"Nh—help me," the pale, pathetic man begged, supporting Pete's body as well as he could with his one safe appendage. It took Ghoul a moment to signal to Jet and Kid that they should come and assist the movement. They snapped to and helped lift Pete where Patrick could not. It burned him perhaps more than the sun that he was so painfully helpless.

"You said his name's Pete?" Kobra asked. Patrick nodded.

"You guys deaf?" The ginger was beyond done with this whole situation.

"Ah...kinda...sometimes," the blonde Killjoy responded. Once more, Ghoul's eyes met Poison's. This time, both brows were raised and the eyes themselves were wide. 'Holy shit' Ghoul’s mouth moved.

Poison didn't believe it. He couldn't. There was no way. He'd seen the murals and Young Blood posters. He'd had one of Patrick right on the back of his door. These guys looked nothing like them. To be fair, however, no one knew what the Young Bloods had actually looked like, not anymore. Between bombs and memory manipulation, BLI had done a thorough job of removing everything but the artistic interpretations people had hidden away due to sentiment.

 _These guys…could they really be…?_ Party Poison’s mind was racing. No, it was too impossible. Wasn’t it? He shook his head, trying to focus.

Gently, oh-so-gently, they moved Pete's body, trying to be careful. They laid him in the trunk, as far forward as they could get him, hoping to keep him out of the sun. Kobra climbed in with him, one hand on the roof of the trunk, the other on his blaster, in case of lurking Draculoids.

"You're up front with me," Poison said to Patrick. He looked the tiny ginger up and down, eyes and heart still asking if this scrawny man was really Patrick, the Young Blood. He tried to shake the thoughts away as he climbed into the driver's seat. Right now they had to focus on getting back. Maybe he was a Young Blood. Maybe he wasn’t. But right now, to Poison, he was just a dude lost in the desert. So, like he’d do to any random dude, he said:

"Touch the radio, and I'm taking your other hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choosing the title for this chapter was only difficult for half a second, as I listened through one of my favorite FOB songs of all time. The line I chose for this chapter couldn't have been more perfect. It might not make all the sense in the world to you, dear reader, but rest assured, in my fevered brain, it is the pinnacle of good decisions.


	6. Vampire Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trips have never been so odd. Between the neon and the guns, Patrick's not exactly happy about bunking with the fab four for a while. Jetting back to base, questions about where he is arise. And the answers he gets aren't even close to what he expects...

_“Get your finger on the trigger, tap the barrel of the gun. Hair back, motherfucker! Jet black, so cool. Sing it like the kids that are mean to you.”_

~

Act 6: Vampire Money

Patrick piled in the car with the teens, since disobeying them didn’t seem like an option, especially with Pete in their trunk. He clicked his tongue as he sat down. "I know the rules," he grunted in response to the redhead’s claiming of the radio. "Driver picks the music—" He realized that kind of pop culture reference would probably get him shot faster than actually touching the radio so he stopped. His gaze stayed trained forward as he settled himself into the junky old Camaro.

Ghoul dived into the back with Jet, who was giving him a look that begged him to spill. Clearly, the fluffy haired Killjoy knew something was up, but Ghoul just shook his head. "Later," he promised, shuffling his ass forward so he could poke his head up between the seats where Poison and the weird, pale guy were sitting.

Patrick had shed his shirt to help Pete, but hadn’t felt comfortable in the car shirtless with these kids, resulting in him pulling his jacket over his pale chest.  His arms were self-consciously wrapped around himself as he kept his attention on the road ahead. Ghoul looked him up and down and wondered why he'd be doing that—aside from the utter lack of color in his flesh, he wasn't badly put together.

The Wagon took off, the leader of the Killjoys directing the old car down the desert dirt with the roar of the old Trans Am’s engine in their ears. With nothing for miles, Patrick found himself staring at the blank landscape, his brain empty. He was too hot and too tired to think at the moment, the events of the week taking a serious toll on his mind. He seemed content to simply stare at the wastelands around them.

Poison, however, was not. The silence was getting to him, since normally his team was always talking about something, and the radio wasn’t anything they could sing along to. The presence of an unknown party now in their precious wagon was not doing well for socialization. "’s Ghoul," he said, gesturing to his partner with a jerk of his head. Might as well give the guy some names, they were gonna be together for a while. "Fluffy back there's Jet. ‘n Kobra's in the trunk with your boy." Bringing his eyes back to the road, he slowed a bit as he rounded a corner as smooth as one could on rough desert terrain.

Taking in all the colorful teens he’d finally been introduced to, Patrick was struck with just how bizarre this was. These guys were really just kids. He sensed something amiss about the group but didn't feel nearly comfortable enough to mention it. Instead, he offered his actual hand to Ghoul, who took it, shook it and gave that billion-dollar, shit-eating grin. He exchanged nods with Jet Star who seemed otherwise occupied watching the horizon for 'Zoids—whatever those were. They seemed nasty enough for these kids to be packing heat, so the ginger didn't question.

"I'm still Patrick," said the disgruntled ginger, perhaps a little more sourly than he intended. "And that's...well he's still Pete."

There was another moment of silence in the car until Poison broke it by laughing. The man just stared at the teen, confused and a little offended somehow, until the scarlet headed boy calmed himself enough to talk. "Sorry, I don't mean to laugh." The car turned a corner, going down a hill. "Just sounds a bit weird. City names like that... I wish I could remember my name..."

A Killjoy was born when you decided to give up on what society said and took things into your own hands, starting with a name. Some Killjoys knew what names they’d had before becoming a Killjoy, but the Fab Four had no record of their previous identities and none really cared. Of course they were curious, but it didn’t bother them. They were content just being the neon teens, jetting down dirt roads and fighting BLI with everything they had in them.

"How's it goin, Kid?" Poison called to Kobra, looking in the rearview mirror for a sign everything was alright. Kobra just gave a thumbs up which Poison returned, content that things seemed to be okay for the time being. Now on a strait path, the Wagon jetted across the dry ground, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.

"Well he's obviously not a kid—" Ghoul said, butting into the conversation with his usual casual candor. The ginger snorted and gave the boy a sneer, using his good hand to shove his face back into the rear seat. The dark-haired Killjoy burst into laughter, the first real mirth of the very unsuccessful day. He had not forgotten the Girl, nor their predicament but it didn't help anyone to mope.

“Where are we going, again?” Patrick asked. Things around him were new and confusing, and he couldn’t remember what the neon teens had told him.

"Our base, man,” Ghoul said from the back seat. “It’s an old diner out in Zone Four. Vintage and shit. You’ll love it, Young Blood.” He finished with patting the man on the head, who clearly didn’t appreciate Ghoul’s gesture and gave him a look that said so. Ghoul simply turned his attention on the other person up front. “Dude, you've got your Young Blood shit stashed there, don't you?" The dark-haired Killjoy recalled aloud, speaking to Poison.

A massive grin broke out on the redhead’s face as he drove. He nodded, happily. "Yeah man, I found one of the old records in Dr. D's stash and swiped that shit faster than you can blink. I think I still have my old posters. Shit man, those things were what made me decide on red," He said brushing a strand said red mane back behind his ear.

 "That's ah...pretty damn red," Patrick observed feebly, giving an approving nod.  He wasn’t quite following the conversation completely, but he could certainly offer his thoughts on the scarlet scalped teen’s bright hair. "Holy smokes, kid."

 It was no secret that Poison was pretty damn proud of the red that desert dwellers had come to name after him. "Thanks. Been rockin this color for a few years and still goin strong." His color was so iconic, there was no way he was going to change it. He'd seen the exterminate posters. Party Poison was red. You couldn't forget color like that, and that's what he was counting on.

He looked over at the ginger man, picturing him with a similar color of hair. "I could hook you up with a bottle if you want.” It didn’t quite occur to him just then how poor his phrasing was, regarding the metal appendage on the ginger’s arm, but it wouldn’t occur to him until later. “Dr. D's got so much shit lying around, you could take the whole house and he probably wouldn't notice."

The ginger didn’t seem to notice the accidental comment on his new metal arm, and instead just waved off the off the teen’s offer of hair dye. "I'm ah...it's cool," he said, holding up his hand. "Been through a couple colors—just lettin' it fade now." He wanted to ask who "Dr. D" was and why these kids were on their own but again, that shit seemed pretty fuckin' inappropriate. Patrick kept his trap shut and settled on worrying about his—about Pete.

Poison nodded, turning his attention back to the road. "Suit yourself." He didn't see this guy as a very color crazy person, between the black leather and paper white chest. "...We can grab you a shirt once we hit the diner. I'm sure there's one in there. Got all kinds of shit there, and you're not too big." A shirt was the least the Killjoys could offer. The guy's partner was bleeding out in the trunk but Patrick was keeping it together surprisingly well. And if this guy was who he said he was, well... Poison had a billion questions to ask. "There're probably some bandages too, if we can find the kit..."

"We're at your mercy, man," Patrick admitted. There wasn't much to be done now but hope these kids didn't go all Lord of the Flies on them. They were his and Pete's best hope for survival in this shithole. Which, he suddenly recalled, had no name yet. "Where...ah...where are we?"

"An old geezer like you might call it Cali," Ghoul piped in from the back, once more shifting his butt forward and sticking his face between the seats. This pushed Jet into a corner with Ghoul practically crawling on his lap. The quiet Killjoy rolled his eyes, but didn't seem to mind, or he was used to it—anyway, Ghoul wasn't huge.

"Sit back before you break your fucking neck, ya moron," Poison snapped, shooting a look at his companion, who did as he was told, making a face in Poison's direction—and then he began to make lewd gestures, just to toy with the red-headed Killjoy and perhaps lighten the mood. He sucked on two fingers and then licked them, making the best "oh" face he could conjure. Jet ignored him because what else was the guy to do? He just rolled his eyes with a smile and looked back over the horizon.

 _'Ghoul you piece of shit,'_ Poison thought. He did his best to suppress a smile and pretend he wasn't watching his partner. There would be payback, later and no mercy would be shown. But for right now, Patrick had asked a question and the redheaded Killjoy was inclined to answer it.

“Uh, we’re currently in Zone Five,” he said, but Patrick was still looking absolutely bewildered, squinting in the desert sun. Poison sighed and started to elaborate. "Cali was its name before The Analog Wars, or at least that’s what Dr. D told us. He was in the wars. ...But, now it's just kinda the desert. You get further out and it's Killjoy territory strait up. You go out east, you hit Bat City, and that's BLI territory. You only head out there if you've got a death wish." Old boundary lines and names in a book meant nothing to Poison. All that mattered was what was going on now, Killjoys vs. BLI, old maps be damned.

Talking to this man was like talking to one of the 5 year olds in the camp who didn't know shit about the wars or BLI. You'd think an old guy would know MORE about this stuff than the teenager. Unless...

But Patrick had been lost since Ghoul’s answer, Poison’s words barely registering in his addled mind. "California?" He grunted. "What..." The vocalist hesitated with his next question. "Wha… what year is it?" The ginger could hardly believe he'd asked such a thing.

The redhead glanced at Patrick like he was insane. "…2019, just like yesterday, bro," He said. "Sheesh, we need to get you out of the sun." This guy was getting weirder by the second. It seemed to make sense with his story, but...there was no way Poison was buying that shit. He wasn't leader of the Killjoys for nothing.

Patrick ran a hand through his hair, confused and a little bit scared."...holy smokes..." He breathed quietly, staring off into the distance of ruined landscape. Cali was never a perfect place but it wasn't a fucking wasteland. His thoughts drifted back to Pete, hopefully still alive in the trunk with that weird bleach-headed kid—ah...Kid. Patrick was going to have a hell of a time remembering these teens' names. Where he was from, shit like "Party Poison" didn't just pop outta someone's womb.

With Patrick going quiet, Poison dared to flick his attention to the backseat and almost instantly regretted it. Now Ghoul was grinding, leaning back on the seat, wrists on either side of his head, pretending to be pinned and making all the worst, most raunchy faces he could think of—and he had a wild imagination. Jet nailed him between the legs with a fist and that stopped him, tout suite.

The dark-haired Killjoy whined and curled up, making a nasty face at Jet, who ignored him. He stuck his pierced lower lip out in the ugliest pout he could muster and shot it at the rearview, knowing Poison would see it. He was feeling pretty good for a kid with...ah well, that was a worry for later.

Poison used the mirror to shoot Jet a grateful look and stuck out his tongue at Ghoul, just for a brief moment. Little fucker was impossible, though Poison knew deep down he sort of liked that. But the little shit was gonna pay. He had more things to worry about than his dark haired companion being an obscene jackass. One of which was trying to keep the car from hitting all the bumps so they didn't lose anyone out the back. He doubted it was very comfortable back there, but they were almost at their destination, anyways.

He looked at Patrick who'd gone very quiet. "You okay, man? You look like you just got ghosted." He was suddenly a pale—well, paler—and just completely dazed. Poison wasn't sure if this was how the yellow eyes came out or if it was just the heat getting to him. "...Need some water?" he asked.

The ginger grunted a response and then turned. "Huh?" He blinked several times. "Ah, no, I'm..." Was he fine? Fuck no he wasn't fine. It was 2019—which meant that all this shit had to have gone down within less than ten years. But hadn't Poison mentioned an older guy who'd lived through "The Analog Wars?" Time was irrelevant, he realized suddenly. Something had happened in those couple of years that made time move as though it had been 20 instead. The thought made him sick.

"Jet, pass up some water,” Poison said, keeping his eyes on the man in the passenger seat who did not look fine at all. “I think Young Blood's gonna start up chucking."

“Fuckin’ hell, Poison, I swear! you’ve already got blood in my trunk,” Jet fussed, falling back in his seat and looking at his leader through the rearview. “I don’t wanna clean up anymore shit out of my fuckin car!”

“Jet, just pass the goddamn water,” the Killjoy leader groaned, exasperated. He so did not have time for this. “Worry ‘bout the wagon later. She’ll survive. Phoenix knows she’s seen her share of bodily fluids.”

Begrudgingly, Jet leaned forward and passed up the canteen to the hook handed man, looking Patrick right in the eye. “Do not vomit. In my car.”

The man took the canteen, but drank nothing, his face still a picture of confusion. “No, I don’t… I’m not gonna vomit…”

The eye-patched Killjoy said nothing, simply falling back into his seat and resided to watching the desert roll by. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Patrick, as if to make sure the ginger wasn’t going to ruin his baby, which Patrick found more than a little unsettling.

“Don’t worry,” The redheaded Killjoy said. “We’re almost there anyways.”

Even as the words left his mouth, the wagon climbed down a hill to a small clearing, the old dilapidated diner's broken neon sign greeting them like cool shade on a hot day. With a grin, Poison maneuvered the car, turning the back of the Wagon to face the door and parked. "Alright, let's get 'em inside, guys." He shut off the old girl's rumbling engine and hopped over the car's door to meet the others at the back.

With remarkable swiftness given the sun's heat and his own lack of clothing, Patrick climbed out of the vehicle and scrambled around to the back of the wagon. He'd tossed the canteen carefully into the back seat where Ghoul caught it, keeping hands tight around the thing. The teen would have snapped at the ginger for his "carelessness" but the throw was well-aimed and Patrick was distracted, making a beeline for Pete.

"Ah—should I call Dr. D?" Ghoul asked Poison. Again, he knew the guy wasn't a _real_ doctor but he was an adult and would likely know more than them. Young Bloods or not, these fellas needed help and Doctor Death Defying was as good a shot as any.

Poison nodded to Ghoul. "Yeah, sure. There should be a call box inside. See if you can get the old man on the line." He looked at the sun, gauging his time. "His broadcast probably ended… 'bout an hour ago, so he ain’t busy." Giving a thumbs up, Ghoul ducked inside while Poison and the others focused on the bleeding man in the trunk.

Patrick reached Pete first, fear and desperation plastered on his face, along with blood and dirt. The ginger skidded to a halt and knelt down to run his hand over Pete's sweaty face. The pale emo king looked worse than ever. Patrick's black T-shirt was almost completely soaked through and was doing very little to actually stop the flow. Carefully, the remaining Killjoys picked him up and got inside.

Gently, they set the tattooed man down, chest to the ground atop a blanket that was strewn a bit haphazardly across the floor. Pete, delirious, was muttering. Poison was closest to the man's mouth and wasn't sure what he was saying. Check? Trip? Fuck if he knew.

The vocalist stayed close to his companion, unable to help much with the transport, what with one hand being a bit sharp and pointy. He knew he'd be burnt like a damn lobster after even the short exposure to the sun, but that was secondary to worrying about his impaled companion. The bolt was buried relatively deep and bleeding freely which, while washing out infection, would also cause the man to die of blood loss.

"Pete?" He could hear the faint whisper from his friend's lips—it sounded like the endearing nickname he'd been given. "Hey—I’m here, man...Hang on." He looked around. "These kids are...helping."

"'Trick? 'trick 'trick... 'trick don go…," Pete muttered senselessly. He could barely see, and sitting up was not an option anymore. He was sweating madly, face contorted in pain. "’trick don go. Don levme, 'trick." His hand twitched a bit, moving toward where he thought Patrick’s was. "’m scared 'trick, don go."

Patrick grabbed Pete's hand with his remaining one. It was soft, save for calluses from playing a LOT of guitar with the man. He pressed soft lips to that hand and squeezed his eyes shut, biting back tears and self hatred. "I'm here—I'm not...I won't go anywhere." The ginger thought perhaps if he kept talking, Pete would hold on. "You're gunna get help. We'll help you, I promise. I won't leave you."

Pete's hand closed tight on Patrick's. Lying on his side like he was, he could make out a dark blurb close to him. He held on tight, with Patrick as his life line. He couldn't die if Pat was here. He just couldn't. Someone had to look after the little guy. He would've smiled at the thought if he didn't have pain shooting through his body. "You don go, I won go," he breathed, "Promis...?" His words were barely a whisper

The singer nodded slowly. "Uh huh..." He laid himself down next to Pete, letting him clutch at his hand. He leaned his forehead forward, ignoring those around them to reassure his only damn friend left that he was there, he was trying to help and that he was going nowhere. Anyway, what the fuck else could he have been doing? The fluffy haired guy—Jet, he believed—had pressure on Pete's wound but Patrick only had one hand to help and therefore was useless—but he could do this.

Pete squeezed again. "...Young Blood...," he muttered, fraction of a smile flashing across his face for a moment. "...Kinda funny," he said, still making jokes even covered in his own blood.

"Oh yeah—hilarious," Patrick was sour but did his best to be positive—or sound like it. His friend was delirious, losing his shit as it were, not to mention his blood. He laid his good hand on Pete's cheek and tilted his mouth forward to kiss Pete softly on the mouth.

Out of his blurry and strange world, Pat's kiss felt familiar and warm and made Pete a touch homesick. He wished it had been under different circumstances, but for the moment he didn't mind. Patrick was there and Patrick had promised not to go.

Poison took one of the blankets from the floor and tore off a long chunk. He gave it to Jet to use in place of the bloody, sopping wet T-shit. It probably wouldn’t do too much, but it would buy him and Kobra some time to look for a med kit; there had to be something.  He glanced over at Ghoul, hoping he was having more success with the radio

Ghoul was busy crossing wires to get the whole place working. He needed power to the radio first, then the cooling system—and thank god for it. Those desert wanderers wouldn't last ten more seconds in the heat. Neither would THEY, come to think of it. He settled himself in a chair, ignoring the ache in his lower back on either side of his spine. Ghoul's headache was gone, thank heavens but the pain in his kidneys seemed to have resurfaced—or maybe it was just one. He couldn’t tell, hadn't peed since yesterday.

But, again, that was a worry for later.

The inky-haired Killjoy dialed up Dr. D, listening carefully to the static, trying to tune it right and hoping the good doctor was nearby to hear it.

"Hey—ah...you read me, Doctor D?" Ghoul tapped the mic, praying the older fellow was on the other end. He'd done enough research to know a little about puncture wounds but right now he really wanted an adult to be there. If these guys were who they said they were, then they NEEDED to be saved, no if's and's or but's.

The radio crackled, odd bits of static coming in between noises that sounded like coughs. And then finally, the old man's jazzy voice crackled back, "Readin you loud an’ clear, Fun Ghoul. Recognize your sweet voice anywhere. How are the fabulous four this fine afternoon?" He sounded like he was still on the air, giving one of his jazzy speeches to inspire the Killjoys or something.

"Less than fabulous, dude," Ghoul responded. He loved Dr. D like the father he didn't remember. They all did. Dr. D was the closest anyone had to a parent. He was the guiding voice over the radio waves who keep you alive. That's what parents did right? Keep you alive? "We've got a couple of weirdos claiming to be Young Bloods—like the originals." He didn't know how else to tell the old dude without getting himself laughed at. It sounded mad just to say it, but then again, he was no expert on the subject. "Who were they again?"

"Young Bloods?” Dr. D’s dry chortle crackled through the radio. “Shoot, cat, you missed out on your education. The Young Bloods weren't people; they were a movement, fronted by four braaave boys in a band. You were practically raised on their music. They stood up for stopping the slaughter of sound. Story goes they had a weapon in a brief case that could end the sound silencers for forever. Their singer, the great Patrick Stump, went out with the case but got ghosted by a gang of girls from the cult campers, which was where BLI got their first kicks in the game. Girls cut off his hand, fed his organs to his partners, and used their own evil sounds to send the scout sailin’ mad. So mad that he killed one of his own. He got taken by those sound silencers, so his bandmates, with the help of a double agent, went after him. Those girls took 'em down, though only two of the four bodies were found. People went pokin their noses and found something with the sound sinners that didn't belong. Young Blood Movement came full force, holding up their boys as martyrs, rallying everyone to fight back. …Then came the wars…" There was a pause and a grunt as D's chair could be heard moving. No doubt he was looking for some Young Blood record or book or something. "You say you got boys claimin’ to be the Young Bloods? Well, I'd say you've been spending too much time out in the sun, but two of the boys were never found and BLI has been known to dabble in the dangerous and strange.” There was the sound of turning pages, and then D’s voice came back. “Ah, here it is… The missing boys were…Patrick Stump, the singer, and Pete Wentz, the bassist."

"Ho...ly...shit," Ghoul grunted. "You're not playin' around are you, old cat—” His head was on a swivel as he looked back and forth between the radio and the guys on the floor. A million questions buzzed around Ghoul's head like angry bees. "But—Poison’s got posters..." It was a feeble point, he knew they were artists' representations but goddammit he had to know. He shook his noggin to clear it but ventured one. "Was ah...was Patrick tall?"

"On the contrary,” came the DJ’s jazzy response. “As the name implies, he was a short as a stump. Posters and pictures exaggerate the ideal perceptions of popular people, seeing what they wanna see. But I remember. He was probably about as tall as you, if not a small bit shorter. Tiny twig of a man, but his voice was pure power, cat. You should’ve seen it…” Of course, Ghoul was watching the supposed Patrick in the room and trying to match him up to the good Doctor’s words.

"Got it!" Poison yelled suddenly, running over to Pete, sliding on his knees the last few feet, an old med kit in hand. He opened it, looking for bandages. "Alright... Let's see what we got..." He was no medical expert, but he was pretty sure he could figure out how to put on a bandage. How hard could it be, right?

Ghoul looked up, heart pounding. There was almost no doubt in his mind anymore. "Thanks Doc—ah, you might wanna haul ass over here then 'cause these cats we got on the floor are the real deal." He didn't have time to say any more. Now was the moment he was going to have to use every bit of knowledge he'd gleaned from all that secret reading to save Pete Wentz's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup guys? Duchess here again. I really don't have anything to tell you. You should know the drill by now: New chapter first of every month, ah... I guess I could tell you September is my birthday month? I dunno. Enjoy the chapter, enjoy your life, and be sure to leave a comment to tell us what you think, we love to hear from you!!


	7. She's My Winona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they set up for surgery, everyone's got the same thing hovering somewhere in the back of their minds. If "Pete" dies, what's going to happen to "Patrick," given his earlier, strangely protective behavior? The clock is ticking and as pressure builds, the Fab 4 start to wonder if it's possible that these guys might be the real deal. Dr. Death Defying has a thing or two to say and the conclusion will have you reeling.

_“_ _Even the young ones become irrelevant. They always bring up how you've changed…never the same person when I go to sleep as when I wake up_ _.”_

~

Act 7: She’s My Winona

            "C-can I help?" Patrick looked up. He was pathetic, lying there like that, holding on for dear life to the last person he had left in the world—this world or that world, it didn't matter. Pete was it.

"Just keep him calm," Ghoul instructed, suddenly taking charge. "Poison, find some antibiotic cream. Kid, grab some clean water, soapy if you can find it.”

He narrowed his eyes when the guy didn't move.

"Don't gimme that shit, man; these two are it, dudes, the original Motorbabies, you feel me?"

Ghoul’s tone was so serious, so unlike his usual that Kobra Kid leapt into action as instructed. "Jet, c'mere...when I pull this thing free, you keep pressure on it—like a lot." He took a deep breath and looked at Poison. "We need to clean it out and then put the antibiotic cream on it and bind it tight."

Poison was so surprised at Ghoul giving orders he stood for a moment before actually starting to search. He actually had to banish the desires it stirred up in his tight jeans in order to focus. Scrambling through the kit, tossing things aside, Poison rifled around for the antibiotic cream. He pushed past the gauze and Bandaid dispensers until he found the object for which he’d been instructed to look, handing it over to his inky-haired partner. It was moments like these where he knew he'd be so completely fucked without Ghoul.

"Alright. Then let's get to it."

The shortest Killjoy grabbed the shaft of the bolt and looked to his companions. "On three," he warned. "One..." His fingers curled tightly around it, as low as he could manage. "Two..." Gripping it with two fingers in particular. "Three."

With a sharp yank, the bolt was free. Blood squirted for a second before Jet clapped his hands down. Pete let out a howling yell as the bolt was removed. Every curse word he knew came flying out of his mouth. His grip on Patrick was crushing as the man's face was locked in a grimace. Then once again, he was breathless, his cursing coming out between gasps. He tried to keep his breathing a rhythm. He was a bass player; he could do a rhythm. Pete focused on his heart. He focused on the hand of his best friend. Anything that wasn't the wet heat and pain from his back.

Patrick let Pete squeeze his hand, watched him scream, felt him try to writhe and then stop himself. God his friend was so brave. What would he do in this situation, if their positions were reversed? He’d be out like a light. The ginger knew that, despite his powerful, fearless, melodic voice, the rest of him was cottage cheese. He was scared shitless already and he wasn't even the one in pain.

"Bleeding's good," Ghoul observed. "Cleans out infection—I think..."

He waited for Kobra Kid to get back with the water. The blonde returned momentarily with a container of hot, soapy liquid and a rag he'd scrounged up. He stooped and offered the bucket to Ghoul. The dark-haired Killjoy pulled the rag out of its bucket and nudged Jet to move his hands.

"Lemme clean it." While Jet did as instructed, Ghoul pushed the rag down, attempting to flush the wound.

Poison watched. He knew Pete was in a lot of pain, but for whatever reason, he found himself sympathizing with Patrick. Watching a loved one in pain was the worst experience he'd ever had the misfortune to see. Not being able to do anything to help only made it worse. He owed the ginger more than just a shirt after this.

The wound continued to bleed as the clean water went in. It was a good sign. Fun Ghoul motioned for a dry rag, which Kid had also thoughtfully retrieved. Sometimes, he had these flashes of brilliance, as if he was psychic—knew exactly what to grab or where one of the other Killjoys was going to be in order to receive something vital. It was odd as fuck, but helpful. Ghoul pressed the rag down and tried to sop up some of the blood.

"Poison, hand me that," the shortest Killjoy stuck his hand out for the antibiotic cream and prayed it would still work.

"Gauze next," Ghoul snapped, not even looking up.

Poison grabbed the roll of gauze from the kit and handed it over the Ghoul. He realized if they wanted to get the bandage around Pete's torso, they were going have to get him up. The ultra-redhead gently probed Patrick in the shoulder, not wanting to startle the man, but just get his attention.

"Here, help me get 'em up." The guy needed something to keep his mind occupied. If he didn't get a hold on something, he was going to freak out worse than the man who'd actually been stabbed.

Patrick was prone to panicking, especially when there was blood involved and it wasn't his. It was an odd response to such a thing, considering his role in one of the most popular punk bands of their time. But the stage was different than dire injury. He sat himself up and then motioned that Pete should grab his hand.

"I need you to sit up, for me, okay?" Patrick spoke softly, gently, as if shouting would break the man.

Ghoul waited patiently, keeping the gauze pressed down. It was soaking a lot of blood into its alabaster folds and the leak worried him. Hopefully no internal organs had been ruptured by the crude bolt and he would just have to bleed out any possible infections. But that was best-case scenario.

"On three," Patrick warned his friend, initiating something of a countdown so Pete could brace himself as much as was possible, given his condition.

Pete grabbed Pat's hand tight. He wasn't going to let go of the only thing that made sense to him. Pat was there. He had to fight. Fight for Patrick, like he always did. With Party Poison’s aid, the two of them managed to sit Pete upright. It hurt, but so did everything else in his body. But he wasn't going to die. He wouldn't allow it. Who would keep his friend safe in this shithole of a—desert?

Poison bit his lip, ready to help as best he could without getting in the way. He didn't want anyone to die; the way Ghoul looked at the two men was like they were rare animals that would go extinct. If nothing else, Poison was willing to protect these assholes for Ghoul’s benefit, silly as it seemed. He wasn't buying into this young blood thing, was he...? Focus. A man was bleeding. He needed to focus.

"Ready."

Patrick pulled with all his might and then wrapped his arms around Pete and kissed his forehead. "You'll be alright," he whispered. "I promise..."

Ghoul knew the look, the prayers—he'd said them recently, was always worried about Poison, Kid and Jet. "Alright, hold him still—arms up," Ghoul ordered. Patrick could only help with one arm, from where he was sitting but he was somehow okay counting on Poison to hold the other.

Poison did just that, holding up the man's tatted arm. He couldn’t help but glance at the designs. Though he was used to seeing heavily tattooed people, what with Ghoul a part of the team, something seemed oddly familiar about these. The owl, the tiger head, the lock and coffin. Where had he seen them before...? Poison couldn't do much other than hold the arm up and wonder, but as he watched Patrick and found himself praying for the guy's recovery.

Pete was practically a rag doll. He didn't have much strength in him to either resist or help. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to collapse on his partner for forever and just sleep... Pete could feel Patrick around him, his arms, his scent, feel his kiss on his head, but it was all so distant. So far away.

"Jet, hold this," Ghoul gestured to the gauze. Jet Star leaned forward and pressed his hands on it. "More pressure."

The frizzy-haired punk did as he was told. Kid stood a ways off near the bowl, watching with fascination as Ghoul took over and displayed a strange, archaic knowledge no one could have known he possessed. The blonde nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened and the heat spilled in along with Dr. D and his cohort with the roller skates, Show Pony.

Before Ghoul could start wrapping, Patrick laid another kiss on Pete's forehead. He hadn't realized how much he loved the man before they'd fallen into this strange set of circumstances. Pete was now his world, his everything, all he had left.

"Hang on, please hang on."

Poison looked over at Show Pony wheeling behind the good old doctor in his chair.

"Dr. D!” He greeted, smiling a bit. Dr. D always brought some kind of hope with him. He was always happy, even with his busted legs, and he never complained. The old man grinned at the kids, until he realized what exactly was going on and the gravity of the situation set it.

"We've got it mostly under control, Doc," Poison quickly said before the man had a heart attack at the amount of blood on the floor and blanket and everyone's hands.

But Dr. D wasn't looking at the blood, or the dark-haired Killjoy working with precision, but the man they were patching up and the one who was holding him. He wheeled his chair over closer, trying to get a good look at the short singer who looked to be inches from completely falling apart.

"Is that...?" he trailed off, leaving the sentence incomplete.

Ghoul was wrapping as if his life depended on it. Well, someone's did. The heavily tattooed Killjoy had the most determined look set into his dark brows that had perhaps ever resided thereupon. His hair was held back with a pair of goggles and he was sweating bullets, even in the rudimentary air conditioning. Ghoul chewed his lower lip as he wrapped the bandage tightly then moved to secure it over Pete's shoulder. "Lean him toward you," he bade the vocalist.

Patrick did as told, moving with Poison's help to tilt Pete's body. He knew it was hurting his friend, that the guy was delirious with agony. The ginger hated this, every second of it, just wanted it to be over. The presence of another human being jarred him out of his worried thoughts for a moment and he looked over one shoulder.

"Huh?"

Doctor D was the definition of retro. Between his old electric wheelchair and his facial hair, he looked like the kind of guy who'd run an organic food stand and play the bongo drums. Anyone who knew Dr. D, which was practically everyone, knew that he was an old dog who loved just about everyone and had enough stories about "the old days," that he'd talk your ear off. No, he couldn't walk, but that did not stop him from fighting. He was the pinnacle of Killjoy knowledge. There was nothing about music and the rebellion that Dr. D didn't know.

Show Pony, who never removed his mask, was Dr. D's right hand and acted as the man's legs, carrying messages and supplies for whoever needed what. For all that, all those years of experiences and stories to tell, the man was absolutely dumbfounded for perhaps the first and last time in his life. D's face was completely stunned. He stared at Patrick for a good eight seconds before speaking.

"BLI be damned, if that ain't a genuine Rock n Roller..."

Poison stared at Dr. D. Had Ghoul talked him into this Young Blood nonsense? There was no way!

"Bit busy doc. Mind keeping the chatter low till we're done?"

He gestured with his head toward Ghoul's bandaging. He didn't want any more talk of Young Bloods until they were sure this guy was going to make it. And then maybe everyone would forget after that, so he wouldn’t have to rack his brains trying to figure out _why_ everyone seemed to think these two random assholes were original Young Bloods.

"Wh...?" Patrick grunted.

"Focus—" Ghoul snapped. The red-head held his friend while Ghoul tied off the bandage and secured it. He would have grinned at his work were it not so grim a situation. Once that was done, he nodded to Patrick. "You can have 'im."

Poison released his hold on the man's arm, letting him fall into his partner’s embrace. He'd be alright. They were done and all that was left was to wait. The Young Blood wrapped his arms tightly around his friend—carefully avoiding his flesh with the old hook. He tucked his face into Pete's shoulder as the bassist flopped listlessly forward, unsupported by anyone but Patrick. Ghoul stood, brushed off his hands and looked to Poison.

"What's with the face, dude?" He cocked his head and looked at his own, flame-haired companion. "You _heard_ what the good doctor said."

Poison sighed. "I just... There's no way, Ghoul. The Young Bloods died! That's what started the Analog Wars in the first place! They can't be them. It just..." He cast a glance at the pair in question. "...It can't be."

And indeed, the two of them, huddled there on the linoleum, hardly seemed like the beginnings of a revolution. Pete couldn't really lift himself at all. He was so tired and so warm. He sure as shit didn’t want to move. What the bassist really wanted was to melt into his friend's arms and just stay there forever. There was so much pain, his head throbbed. It was a miracle he hadn't passed out yet.

Patrick heard none of it, nothing but Pete's soft breathing. He stayed rooted on the floor, on his butt, holding the bassist. They weren't out of the woods yet—or...the desert, but Pete wasn't going to bleed out on the floor. That was one positive aspect to an otherwise utterly negative day—half of which he couldn't remember. He pressed his lips to the side of Pete's head, his ear, his jaw, his hair...just silently letting him know he was not abandoned, would NEVER be abandoned.

"No one said they died—" Ghoul pointed out. "Just that they disappeared."

He shrugged. The Killjoy patted himself down for a cigarette and then suddenly seemed to realize he had business elsewhere. "I'll be back—gotta piss."

He gestured to his crotch and then swept out of the area. Kid was cleaning up as well as he could and Jet sat in a booth, breathing heavily, as if trying to absorb that he'd just help save a man's life. The blood was definitely not helping and he stared blankly out the window to try and forget that it was all over his hands and the floor.

"Whassat you guys're sayin'?" Kobra Kid's attention was now on Poison and Dr. Death Defying. Poison had been glad to finally stop talking about this nonsense, but Kid was curious, and he couldn't say no to his brother.

"...Ghoul thinks these crash queens are the original Young Bloods." he said gesturing to pair. "Fuckin’ ridiculous."

Dr. D rolled up in his chair. He looked over the entire scene through dark glasses and gave a contemplative purse of his lips. The old-timer stopped just a few inches away from Kobra and the redhead.

"A’lotta crazy things wind up wandering this desert. You'd be surprised what you could find out in the zones." Poison looked at the old man, quizzically. Was he hiding something...? What did he mean? Suddenly D's face got serious. "You've got 'blood gear, don't you, tumbleweed?" he asked the Fab Four’s leader, who nodded. "Why don'cha fetch that stuff real quick. I'd like to see some of it." Poison nodded and ran off to the back of the old diner, leaving Dr. D to watch the two men, still on the floor, looking like they were both about to fall apart.

The little ginger vocalist was trying his best to gather Pete into his arms but he really only had _one_ to spare and so he used that and his thighs to pull his friend close. Pete was out like a light, finally and so Patrick could relax...a bit. He'd only been semi-aware of the conversation surrounding them while the ordeal had been going on. Now that his brain could rest, he had become painfully attuned to the eyes on him—especially the old fella. Dr. D moved his chair closer to Patrick, grinning again.

"I'm sorry guys...were you talking to me?" Patrick thought he'd start out gently, in hopes the situation wouldn't be painfully weird. The one calling himself Party Poison had darted off but Kid was still in the area and listening intently to the old guy.

"Dr. Death Defying, welcome to the Fab 4’s humble digs,” the wheelchair-bound fellow said, grinning warmly and holding out his hand to shake, making sure he wasn't about to shake a hook. "I apologize for any warm welcome BLI gave you along the way." He spared a look at Pete, noting the tattoo patterns he knew very well. There was no doubt about it. These boys were bona fide Young Bloods. "But I must say... it is truly an honor to meet you, Mr. Stump."

"Ah—thanks," he wasn't sure how to take that sort of greeting. "Just Patrick, really."

He shook the hand gently and offered a polite, if confused, grin. Patrick was used to a much younger, much LOUDER fanbase—more like the boys who didn't seem to know jack shit about them. Though...oddly enough...they DID seem eerily familiar to the vocalist. He mentally shrugged that idea off, forcing himself to focus on the entropy in his mind. Things were falling apart left and right as he tried to keep hold of reality—whatever that meant anymore.

Nodding, Dr. D said, "Well then, Patrick... I'm afraid I've got some news that might be a bit hard to swallow..." He wasn't sure how much the singer knew about his new situation, but figured it wouldn't hurt to start from the beginning. " 'fraid you’re not in Kansas anymore. The song's changed, but it's still the same station. Year's 2019. The world you knew? Well... you can kiss that dream goodbye. BLI shot that in the face with the Analog Wars, shortly after your time."

"What happened...?" Patrick was dumbstruck. Poison had told him the year, of course but hearing it from an adult mouth—even one as groovy as Dr. D—was even harder to swallow. "What...we must've...oh god I fucked up." His brows knit squarely at the center of his forehead, where the bridge of his nose met soft, green eyes. Looking down at Pete, Patrick knew for a fact that it was he alone who had royally fucked up; it couldn't have been anyone else.

Dr. D put out a hand to Patrick, tell him to calm down. "Easy there, cat, easy... Ain't no one to blame here but BLI and the Music Munchers. After you band babes were found dead, people started asking questions and found some answers those Cult Campers didn't want anyone singing the tune of. The Young Blood movement held you up as martyrs, encouraging everyone to take a stand. What they hadn't known was the BLI had already been infecting things slowly, a modern day Trojan Horse, if you will. Between medicine and mental manipulation, the sound slaughterers had most of the world on their side with their happy pills, the only thing against them being the Young Bloods..." He gestured as he spoke. "The Analog Wars began then." His hands scratched at his busted legs. "Lost my legs in that fight..." He shook his head. "We lasted a long time, but... all we had was guns and a give 'em hell attitude. They had been in their bunkers and labs making blasters and bombs to get us with." He shook his head. "We didn't stand a chance. Old cats like me saw hope in the next gen, so we grabbed every juvie hall occupant and Ritalin rat we could find and booked it out to the desert, settin’ up shop out where no one could find us."

Patrick hung his head. "Then it happens…happened right after we..." He actually had no idea what happened to them. "Left?" The ginger shook his head. Once more, Patrick wanted to cry; he'd felt that a lot today. It wasn't a GOOD feeling. He shifted Pete a little bit so his grip was more comfortable. What he really wanted was to remove the hook so he could get his arm closer to the bassist. "Hey...ah," he looked up to Dr. D's constant companion, the weirdo guy in skates—didn't know his name. He gestured to the hook.

"Ay! Pony, mind shaking them skates over here? Brother needs a hand,” Dr. D called to his companion, nearly chuckling at his own pun. Show Pony skated over obediently, grabbing the hook. He started pulling up, hoping for gravity to do the rest.

Meanwhile, in back, Ghoul heard Poison run by the bathroom, probably to fetch something from the back. He knew he had to hurry, staying on the can too long looked bad. But that tint to his piss wasn't good. He shook his head and zipped up. Staring himself in the face, he tugged at the bags under his eyes. "I need to crash—that's all," he promised himself, turning to exit the room and nearly running into his...into Poison.

Poison was holding two rolled up posters, two cd's, and a record, all of which he almost dropped. The posters fell, but the CD's and vinyl remained intact. "Shit Ghoul! Be careful!"

"Crap—sorry," Ghoul apologized and began to stoop, intending to pick up the fallen merch. Poison was faster with his precious Youngblood swag, however, and the dark-haired one missed his opportunity. He stood and felt a sudden wave of nausea. _Lack of sleep,_ he told himself. As Poison collected the rolls of paper, he spared a glance back up at his partner. Remembering the medical emergency of the day previous, he gave him a slight smile. "You holdin' up?"

"One hundred ten percent, babe." The nickname slipped—though they WERE alone. He wanted to kiss Party Poison on the mouth, just...let him know they were still...still what? He reflected on the day's failure and wondered if that was the case at all.

Poison knew better than to take Ghoul's word for it.

"...You hit the sack when you hit limit, got it?" He spoke not harshly, just as a caring reminder. "You're no good if you're battery's spent." He was glad Ghoul was pushing himself, but didn't want him to push himself too far. Poison didn't want to see him getting hurt any worse than he already was. He cared about him too much.

"I read ya loud an' clear," Ghoul responded, moderately worried that Poison may have figured him out. He gauged the redhead's reaction and then added. "But I don't wanna go alone," with a playful whine. He tugged at a lock of that red hair and brushed his fingertips along Poison's soft, young jaw, offering the cheekiest grin ever to exist.

Poison grinned and shook his head. Ghoul was impossible. "Right now, D wants to see my gear. See if these guys are legit or whatever." He looked from the door way to his partner. "Tonight..." he said. He still had to make the punk pay for his shit in the car earlier.

"Heh—cool," his grin never left as he followed Poison out. "Y'want me to help carry that?" The scene was much the same as they'd left it but the little red-haired one was actually speaking to Dr. D.

"Nah, I got it." He glanced over at the scene, hoping Dr. D was sorting out these nut jobs. He spread out his collection on the floor. He had a faded record of "Folie a Deux," one "Soul Punk" CD with the art missing, a faded copy of "Infinity on High" and two of the Young Blood posters. One was all four of the FOB boys, all roughly the same height and each with a messy red X over their faces. The other was a drawing of Patrick that looked very little like the man in the corner; the general face shape was the same, but the features were off.

His hair in the picture was much closer to Poison's red mane than Patrick's soft ginger, but the name "PATRICK STUMP" was clearly emblazoned at the bottom and the words "Goin’ down swingin’" were cleverly written in the negative space around the singer. Poison smirked to himself. There was no way they were the same person.

The scene before Poison’s eyes would have been fucking comical were it not for the actual circumstances. Show Pony was latched onto the other end of the little ginger’s hook hand. He was giving a solid tug every few seconds, hindered by his roller skates.

Patrick pulled back, hoping not to yank the skinny kid down. It hurt, a lot but he wanted the damn thing off. Oddly, the wound was no longer throbbing—or maybe he'd just gotten used to it. When it came loose, he squawked, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. The wound was still raw, after all. He didn't wanna see what the bandage looked like but it was stained vermilion.

"Dude, lemme look at that," Ghoul scuttled around Pete's legs to Patrick. The med kit was still nearby. He grabbed the man's arm and started tugging at the edge of the bandage which made Patrick whimper. Nah, Dr. D was high on buttcrack; there was no way this pussy was the late, great Patrick Stump.

Though it would have been ironic.

As the dark-haired Killjoy unwrapped the arm, the spread of infection was his main concern. Oddly, the surface was partially healed, and the skin didn’t look overly irritated. Ghoul chalked it up to dumb luck and bullshit—two concepts with which he was intimately familiar. "I have to cauterize it, dude."

"Wh—you mean burn it?" Patrick looked like he was about to piss himself. His heart fluttered. "O-okay...if you think..."

"Yeah, I've got a torch an' some metal shit stashed in back." Ghoul arose and jogged past Poison, back to where the flame-haired one had retrieved his 'Blood shit. He dug around a while and produced an acetylene torch and something that looked like it could have been a brand, but with no logo stamped into it—the end was just a circle. "I'll wash it off,” Ghoul called as he re-entered. "Sterilize it and then stop it bleeding..." He'd have stitched it if he could but the wound was in a shitty place.

"O-okay."

Poison looked up, only hearing about the last half of what was said. He'd been too busy looking at the Soul Punk album. The moment D had said that P Stump had done a solo album, Poison had swiped it. He'd been hoping there was some kind of actual photograph of Patrick in it, but the art had been missing. His attention had been garnered by the presence of a torch. Poison smirked just a bit. Yeah, this wimp was not Patrick Stump. He held the poster up just a bit, doing a comparison check. How could he have thought anything different? He smiled smugly at the man.

"Don't worry, Ghoul knows what he's doing. He's actually pretty smart when he's not being a fucking jackass," he said, yelling the last few words to make sure Ghoul heard him.

"Aha fuck you too, big fella," Ghoul looked up and gave Poison the finger. He sat off to one side, preparing the torch. "Sterilize that shit for me, wouldya?" The Killjoy wasn't specific as to whom should be doing the sterilization, he just called it into the air, assuming someone would jump up and do it. "C'mon, chop-chop!" Kid jumped out of his daze and scuttled to do just that.

Patrick held his arm out obediently, understanding the danger of a severed limb. It was going to hurt like a bitch but Fun Ghoul seemed to know what he was doing. The ginger watched the exchange between him and Poison and almost smiled; they had something, whether or not they realized it. He knew that tone. Ah but then he watched the way the one in the blue jacket with the painfully red hair eyed one of his old albums and then eyed him. "That's Soul Punk isn' it?" He asked. This kid was just NOT going to believe he was who he was. He sighed, resigning himself to it.

"Look...man..." Patrick started. "I'm prolly gunna cry like a baby when that thing hits my ah...stump—" he would've chuckled at the pun but the situation was kind of ugly. "So lemme show you something first." He jarred Pete, whispering him to wake up. "Hey man—I've gotta use the ol' pipes...if that's cool."

Pete opened his eyes a bit slowly. He didn't even think about sitting up, wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, blinking until he could finally see straight. The bassist was still sweating, but functioning. "..nngh... 'trick?" his words were a bit more articulate. He was so fucking tired.

Ghoul was listening. He wasn't watching but he was listening. This was going to be good. He couldn't wait to just throw something at the little sucker and call him a loser. The tiny Killjoy mentally chastising himself for ever thinking these weirdos could actually be the real thing. This “Patrick” guy would be ridiculed for a while, then take on a Killjoy name and assimilate like the rest of them.

"Make it quick,” Ghoul grunted, flipping his hand around, indicating he wanted to get this stuff over with and cauterize the guy’s arm before it rotted completely off or bled out.

Patrick looked to Dr. D. "Gimme The Phoenix, old fella—i-if you've got it."

Dr. D nodded with a smile, rolling over to the old radio. "Sure thing cat. Poison, you've got my disk. Where is it?" Poison groaned a bit, going over one of the old booths and pulling out the cushion. He picked up the Save Rock n Roll CD and passed it over to Doctor D who slid it into the old boom box, shooting Pat a thumbs up and a supportive smile.

Patrick smiled back at Dr. D—a silent thank you—and slid Pete off his lap and laid him gently as he could on the ground. Kobra actually yanked off his jacket and slipped it under Pete's head. The blonde was interested in this weird-ass duo, the same way Ghoul had been earlier, but with a bit more charming, hot-headed naïveté. Pete was in a bit of a daze but muttered something along the lines of a thank you at the jacket under his head. He didn't quite see who it was but was grateful none the less. Kobra Kid stayed near the downed Young Blood as Patrick stood, almost shaking and taking deep breaths to calm himself.

As the song started, what came out of his mouth was nothing less than pure, solid, 24k gold.

"Ho-ly..." Ghoul's eyes went wide and he nearly burned himself. This guy had no amplification, no microphone and no filter. His voice was raw power. Pete smiled at the sound of Patrick's voice. The guy was a powerhouse of talent and gut. It was clear he had the attention of the whole room. It was nice to wake up to something like that.

Poison's face went from smug and irritated to completely shocked and startled after less than four notes from Patrick's mouth. Poison could barely move. This... this was undeniable proof. Posters be damned, there was no faking that voice. It was the anthem of all that the Young Blood's had stood for. It was the base of everything that the Killjoys fought to protect. It was pure unadulterated rebellion.

After a while Poison couldn't even look. He could feel his face start to become as red as his hair. 'Oh fuck, oh fuck, I called him an old man and a wannabe,' he thought. 'oh fuck!! i nearly shot him!!' His gaze was snapped back, however, by the sustained note three quarters of the way through the song. Party Poison’s eyes met Patrick Stump’s and the ginger stared the Killjoy down as he continued the song. But the call of “Hey, Young Blood” had clearly been meant for Poison.

Everyone in the diner stopped breathing for the span of time it took Patrick to sing The Phoenix. Enraptured was not nearly strong enough a word to describe the mood of the place. No one looked anywhere but right at the man singing.

Patrick finished the last line "put on your war paint," and breathed a sigh of relief. The song ended and he realized the whole room's attention was going to go ahead and stay on him.

"Crap,” he mumbled, closing his jacket self-consciously over his bare chest, careful not to touch the newly-sterilized lack-of-a-hand. "My name is Patrick Stump and we are...what's left of Fall Out Boy." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. This bugger has been edited and in the hopper almost all month--maybe even last month, I misremember. Hopefully the anticipation has made the conclusion that much sweeter. You're all amazing for putting up with our silly deadlines. -THP


	8. The Only Hope For Me Is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, after a demonstration like that, who isn't completely blown away? Live and in the flesh, the "long dead" Young Bloods stand before the Killjoys; broken and falling apart, but hey, who wouldn't be after what they've gone through? But things aren't all fine and Dandy. Patrick's wrist still needs fixing and as Pete gains consciousness, he starts to notice something a bit familiar about things and his suspicions are only furthered by a discovery in the laundry bin and a guilty look on Doctor D's face...

_“Where were you when all of the embers fell? I still remember them. Covered in Ash. Covered in Glass. Covered in all my friends. I still think of the bombs they build.”_

~

"No fuckin' way," Ghoul grunted, eyes still wide. He was the first to speak, breaking the silence that had settled after Patrick spoke. The room was completely in awe, Jet and Kobra sharing looks of “Holy fuck” and Poison, who'd gone from white as a sheet and red as a tomato in a span of two seconds.

Doctor D just started clapping. He’d believed from the beginning, Patrick’s voice of gold only proving his point. Hitting the pause on the radio, he wheeled back toward the tired looking Young Blood and gave the man a solid nod. "It's good to know there’s still some legends living." Patrick returned with a small smile as Dr. D turned to look at the Killjoys, who were all somewhere on the scale of excited and completely confused. "Now before you kids go all giddy on the man, let's get his hand fixed first. Rockin’?"

There was a general response chorus of “Rockin’, D,” as the crew dispersed to help Ghoul set up, while giving the Young Bloods some space. Though, none of them could help glancing over at the pair every now and then with complete awe. It wasn’t every day the leaders of the first rebellion wandered through your desert.

Though, not everyone was with the program. Pete was still not entirely awake. He blinked up at the one constant he had in his haze: Patrick. Sounds still muffled and the edges of his vision were still blurry, but he could sense something was going on, and Patrick was involved. He’d heard the ginger singing, and was pretty sure it was the Phoenix, but it still felt like everything was underwater. Bumping the ginger a bit, the wounded bassist tried to get his attention. "‘trick,” he mumbled, “...wss goin on…?"

Instantly, Patrick turned from rebellion hero to scared-to-death lover. He dropped to his knees and pulled Pete's head back into his lap, offering the jacket back to Kid with his good hand. So happy to hear Pete’s voice, he leaned down and laid his lips on Pete's forehead. "Just...showing off like the asshole I secretly am inside."

Pat's lips felt like the equivalent of a giant hug to the delirious bassist, whose dry lips cracked a smile. If Patrick was an asshole inside, it would have to be deep inside, because he was a cream puff adorable kitten everywhere else—everywhere but his vocal cords. He took Pat's hand and squeezed gently. "Ya couldn be’n asshole ifyatry’d, 'trick," Pete said, his words coming out slurred. "Yura fuckin angel."  He weakly pressed his dry lips to Pat's hand, trying to show he was okay. No doubt the little cream puff was worried. "What wus the song for...?”

Pete’s dry lips on his hand felt good and his smile was a beautiful sight; Pete was responding, which meant he was on his way to being okay. "Ah...just a...demonstration." As the inky haired Killjoy came over, the ginger’s attention shifted. Ghoul was holding the metal plate in one hand and the torch in the other. Right. "I'll explain later,” Patrick said, giving Pete’s hand a squeeze that was partially to reassure the bassist, but also for himself.

The plate was heated and Patrick’s wound was sterilized. It would have to be good enough, Ghoul decided. He said a quick prayer to the Phoenix Witch—if she could hear him from here, he'd be goddamn impressed—and instructed Patrick to give him his arm. "It won't take TOO long,” he said to Patrick, trying to be somewhat reassuring. “Shit's hot."

"Okay—" Patrick squirmed at the thought, but after that performance his adrenaline was flowing again. "B-but...okay I think...just be careful..." He recalled something in the back of his mind, something about what those weird bitches did to him—and that it might have been partially triggered by pain. Reaching down, he groped for Pete's hand, eyes shut tight. "D-don't let go of me..." He whispered, voice barely audible.

While they were getting prepped, Dr. D had rolled himself out of the way, not wanting to get in the middle of anything. With a grin, he rolled over to Poison, who still hadn't moved from the booth he was leaning against. That high note must've hit him bad. "You okay, cat?” the old man asked, with only a hint of a laugh in his voice. “You look like you just got ghosted."

The scarlet-haired teen was not looking up from the floor. He half thought he was going to be sick. A steady line of curse words were playing over and over again in his mind. Everyone hated to be called out on being wrong, but to be so wrong that your hero and idol was literally showing you how wrong you were through one of most iconic anthems of the rebellion, a rebellion that you’ve become the face for... Well... that was something strait out of a bad dream.

He waved Dr. D off, finally looking up and giving a not-so-reassuring smile. "Fine, doc, I’m just..." He was trying to think of words that weren't 'Utterly Humiliated,' even though that was probably the closest he could come up with. "Gimme a bit. I'm right as rain, I swear."

Everyone knew how much Poison looked up to the Young Bloods, more than anyone else in the group, and no one knew Poison more than Ghoul. The black haired Killjoy knew he had to work fast before the flame-haired leader responded properly and started to get everyone riled up. Pulling Stump’s stump into his lap, he gave Patrick an apologetic look. Then, without a word, he pressed the flat of the white-hot brand to the man's wrist. The smell and sound it made were sickening and if his stomach was weaker, he'd have hurled.

Patrick wasn’t exactly having a good time either. The agony was intense, like nothing the ginger had ever felt—Patrick's breath was drawn from his body. At this point, he couldn't find the voice to scream, just squeezed Pete's hand. As he stared down hard at the bassist, a sudden flash of sickly yellow colored normally soft, emerald eyes.

Pete might not have been entirely with it, but he recognized those eyes and was suddenly very very awake. "Nonono!!!" He gripped Pat's hand tightly. "Pat, Patrick Martin Stump, listen to me. Don't you dare go Demon on me, you mother fucker!!" Pete started flopping about, trying to get up, but lacking the necessary strength to do so.

None of the Killjoys were sure of what was happening, just watching the confused bassist thrashing like a fish. But then Patrick looked up, casting his violently amber gaze across the room accompanied with a sneer that belonged on the fact of a mad dog, not the soft singer. Remembering the change in the singer from earlier, Poison’s hand went to his gun. "Ghoul, get back," he ordered.

"I can't stop now, man," Ghoul warned. "The cauterization has to take—" He noticed the panicking too but his duty was to save this guy who was the real deal, genuine, 100% Young Blood. If he didn't close the wound, it _would_ get infected and Patrick Stump _would_ be dead.

Said Young Blood’s breath came in harsh gasps, a strange, inhuman growl rising from the pit of his stomach. Pete's voice became an echo, drowned out in the rage of—what? What was making him so angry? The pain shooting up his arm was a trigger—it set him off and he had no way of coming back...save Pete. The bassist had dragged him back before and some of his words were still getting through, making the ginger’s skull pound with conflict.

"Help me," Patrick whimpered.

And Pete was going to do just that. He gripped Patrick's jacket, forcing the man to look at him. He was desperate and afraid and the only person he had left was turning into a monster. "Patrick. Patrick, listen to me. Don't do this man. Don't let it take you down. Pat... Damn it, Pat, listen to me!!" He moved his hand from the jacket to behind the singer's head, fingers entangled in the ginger's hair. He was inches from crying. "Don't you _dare_ fucking do this... You're not this kind of guy! You're not a monster!!"

Ghoul was almost finished. He prayed Pete would be able to stop Patrick going ape-shit before he could actually end the procedure. It was crude but effective and the smell of burning flesh filled the diner. The Killjoy made a face when it was all over, scrambling to back away, aided by Kobra Kid who hoisted him up under the armpits.

Somewhere deep inside this sulfur-eyed demon, Pete's words—words of truth, a confession of faith, a knowledge of real nature, words more honest than any that had come from Pete Wentz's mouth perhaps his whole life—were tearing through the darkness infused into Patrick's psyche by inhumane torture. He was coming back. His eyes flashed back to green and he steeled his jaw for the strange emptiness of the sleeper personality leaving him.

Pete had never been so happy to see those beautiful, beautiful green eyes. "Oh thank goodness!" He exclaimed, pulling his partner, his best friend tight into a hug, a few stray tears falling. That snarling beast that had been planted in him was not Patrick. "I promised you I wouldn't leave if you didn't," he said, quietly into Pat's ear. "I'm still here... Don't leave. Don't let that... thing take you away from me... You're all I've got, 'trick... You're all I've got…"

The whole room seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Things seemed to be stable.

For now at least.

Dr. D broke the silence first, suggesting everyone take a breather and have something to eat. The idea sounded fantastic to the hungry teens. Everyone started moving to help, keeping an unspoken agreement to not interrupt the two Young Bloods as they clung to each other in the corner. They'd come around on their own time. Poison moved to grab his Young Blood swag from the floor before any of it was stepped on. It was still precious to him, even if the posters were incredibly inaccurate.

The stump was ugly, but closed. Patrick could hug Pete and not fear that he might rip into the man's ribcage or kidneys from behind. He pulled himself close, tightly squeezing as if letting go would mean his death. "Kiss me, you animal," he whispered, so very relieved to be back he lost track of himself, and gladly the bassist obeyed.

The words were barely audible but Ghoul heard. Something about it was familiar—as if he'd heard it before, as if someone he knew said it to him...Maybe Poison had. In the heat of passion, the guy could get pretty raunchy. Speaking of...Ghoul scuttled over to help his friend gather his Young Blood swag. "Hey-now you can get an autograph," he pointed out.

With a dry chuckle, Poison looked from the Patrick poster to the soul punk CD. He would love nothing better than to ask the man for the autograph, but honestly he was far too embarrassed to do such a thing. "Eh, I'm not getting the feeling he wants to autograph anything right now," he said. "Besides, I almost shot the fucking guy!" He was never going to live that down. Ever.

Patrick knew they were being more than a little amorous but for a group of teenagers, stuff like that was probably par for the course. As he began to calm down, something occurred to him—well, many things occurred to him all at once. Without their masks and out of the blazing sun, the Killjoys seemed oddly, eerily familiar. When he pulled away from Pete's mouth, he leaned his head onto the man's shoulder, whispering his concerns into one ear. "I don't know what it is, but I think I've met these guys before—they seem...familiar."

Looking around the room, Pete nodded a bit. He had to agree, there was something oddly familiar about these kids. But his thoughts were cut short as the old man in the chair rolled up, a big box in his lap. He held it out to the pair. "Here," he said. "We keep a collection of old clothes. They're as clean as they come out here." Pete nodded and said a quick thanks. He looked at the collection of shirts, rummaging through it. He pulled out a shirt that looked really familiar. What was it? The memory came flooding back. He grinned.

"Pat, you remember warp tour, '05, performing with the guys from My Chem? ...god, Mikey had a shirt just like this one... Bro and I were jamming back stage and he totally tore a hole right in the—" He turned the shirt around, moving his fingers around to where the blond bassist had torn a hole, expecting to find smooth fabric, but instead found the crude stitching that was clearly not done by anyone experienced. "...huh... That's..." His brow furrowed. "This... this IS Mikey's shirt..."

Patrick raised a brow and looked at the thing. "You...might actually be right." He recalled the incident, remembered laughing himself silly right along with the others. For being the biggest emos out there, the guys of My Chem were a bunch of sweet, hilarious dudes. Their front man, Gerard Way, was exceptionally pretty—Patrick remembered that most vividly. He blushed thinking about it. "But how's the old fella got it," this part came in a whisper.

"No idea...,” Pete mumbled, looking at the shirt, and thinking back to the warped tour shenanigans they got up to back then. When was the last time he’d seen mikeyway anyways…? “Maybe he met them? Charity bin or something..." He held onto the shirt, tucking it into his pocket before pulling out a different one that was a bit larger to replace his bloody one.

"Yah think?" Patrick looked at the kids as he pulled out a new shirt for himself. "They're just teenagers now, right?" If it was 2019 and they were only teens, they would've been too young for My Chem. Patrick was beginning to put pieces together and he didn't like the picture they were making. "Pete..." He tugged at the man's new shirt, ushering him into a corner. "There are four guys—" It was a little farfetched. He pointed at Jet Star, still sitting by the window and then Kobra Kid.

The more Pete looked, the wider his eyes got as he realized what Pat was implying. "Holy fuck..." Mikey Way, one of Pete's best friends was sitting on a table not but 15 feet away chatting like he hadn't a care in the world, opening a can of something. There was no mistaking it. That was Mikey. Pete recognized Ray Toro's fluffy mane, but... he was a fucking kid! They both were! "Then... I don't... how is this possible?”

No one seemed to notice their freak out except Dr. D, who didn't look concern as much as worried, and tried to play it off as if he hadn't been looking. Pete bumped Pat and whispered. "I think the old man knows something..."

"Y'think?" Patrick's brows knit together. He eyed Dr. D over Pete's shoulder. The guy wasn't very good at being stealthy, short as he was. In fact, he just wanted to know what was going on here. Not that he was ungrateful for the save but My Chem had disbanded and gone missing within six months or so of the Young Bloods' beatdown. It was weird but no one could have guessed where they went. He leaned around Pete and gestured to Dr. D to come over.

The good doctor wheeled over, smiling as if he wasn't clearly hiding something. He stopped and folded his hands in his lap. "Clothes fit alright, kids? There might be some bigger duds at the studio if you need.”

"Nah, I think we're okay, just wondering..." Pete held up Mikey's old shirt, gripping it tightly, hoping to keep his cool long enough to get some sort of answer out of the old guy. "Where'd you get this shirt?"

D looked at the shirt, squinting a bit, as if trying to remember. "Mm... can't say I recall, cats. Kids drag and drop clothes all the time." He shrugged. "We don't exactly have a super store around these parts."

"See, thing is," Pete said, cutting off the doctor, "I know who's shirt this is." He pointed to the blond haired bassist sitting by the window, trying to be somewhat subtle. The last thing he needed was mini Mikey to walk over. "And he's right over there. Problem is, he's about half the size he should be."  He looked back at the old man, plenty of fight still in his tired brown eyes. Dr. D’s Jaw just tightened as Pete spoke, though his gaze remained even, unaffected. "So, do you wanna tell me what's going on here or should I just go over and ask him?"

Looking over at the teens, Patrick  was having trouble processing how all this could be—never mind the damn time travel shit; they were standing in a room full of fellow Young Bloods who didn't know they were Young Bloods. If these kids _were_ My Chem, why didn't they remember and how were they children when Pete and Patrick had popped out just as they'd left?

As Pete's tone darkened, Patrick's attention was back on the pair. The bassist stooped and spoke in a low tone to the pseudo doctor. Judging by the older fellow's reaction, there was something important—a piece of information he wanted, no, needed to protect.

The old man sighed a bit, looking over at the younger versions of My Chem's bassist and guitarist, something in his gaze resembling that of a father charged with a very troubling task. He looked from Pete's stone cold gaze, to Patrick's curious glance, letting out a sigh. "...Follow me," was all he said, turning his chair and driving it to the front door, telling Show Pony he'd be back, he just wanted to show the Young Blood's something.

Pete followed, still gripping Mikey's shirt in one hand and Patrick in the other. The ginger remained silent as he followed the old, wheeled fellow out. Dr. D was a man of many words, and all of them important. This, he could respect. But he was holding something back, keeping something from these so-called "kids." That didn't seem right to Patrick but he was curious, so painfully curious.

They stopped just behind the good Doctor’s van, hiding in the shade. "Now, before I start,” D said, after making sure the kids couldn’t see them from the window, “I need you boys to swear you won't tell the kids for their own sakes."

Pete stared at the old coot as if he’d just asked them to eat their own feet. "Oh, not tell them that they're actually one of the bands apart of the Young Blood Movement and have somehow turned into teenagers in this shithole of a desert?" He nodded, voice heavy with sarcasm and frustration, looking ready to burst. "You know, just me, but I think something like that's pretty important."

Dr. D's gaze went from being worried and upset to irritated. "You can can the attitude, cat. You didn't see what happened. I know the world you come from, but it ain’t the one you’re in. Those boys were dying. Screaming in pain, unable to breathe, coughing up their insides til there wasn’t much left… I don’t care who they were in your world. To me, they’re family, so you might wanna shut your trap and listen before you accuse me of anything…”

There was a moment of silence… Pete went silent, his temporary anger now flushed away. It was like getting scolded a parent, even though they’d only just met. Dr. D was like that. Part of being the dad to the whole band of desert dwellers.

The irritation and anger dissipated from the older man, leaving him looking tired and once again distressed. “…It all started a few years ago, when a patrol found ‘em in the desert I don't know how you or they came to wander this wilderness, but they came to town trying to figure out where they were, like you. Except, unlike y’all, they were falling apart, dry and delirious. We all thought it was just the heat, but it just kept going on. They'd try and tell me their names and numbers, but they weren't complete creatures then. They were in so much pain… Their brains and bodies were fighting each other and both were losing. They were in such pain, those poor kids… corroding down til they stopped trying to remember. Only then did they get better. By the time they recovered… they’d changed… Twisted back by whatever sent them or whatever they’d experienced, I’m not really sure.” He shook his head. This was clearly not an easy topic for the jazzy old man. “Those kids are fighters… but they couldn’t take that pain.”

Hearing the old man's story of how the four men became boys, the Young Bloods were struck silent. Patrick winced, wondering how close he and Pete had come to suffering the same thing. A guilty thought occurred to him then—if he'd reverted to his younger years, would he have been tubby again? Would Pete still have been—Patrick shook his head and planted a cross look on his face. This was so not the time for these kind of thoughts.

Gathering himself again, Dr. D continued. “I don’t want you trying to tell them they ain’t from here, because if they remember, they might up in pain again. We need those boys. They might be someone else from your time, but here, they’re Killjoys. More importantly, they’re family. …I couldn’t bear to see their pain then, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna watch it now. So y’all better keep your mouths _shut_ , understand?”

"Yeah, we get you, mister...,” Pete said. He sounded like a kid. He was starting to feel bad to accusing the old man.

Dr. D nodded. He shuddered at the memories of the kids writhing on the floor. It was a miracle they didn’t die from the sheer amount of pain they’d gone through. It was all D could do to protect them. He never played MCR tracks and had removed the albums from his shelves, knowing the kid’s—specifically Poison’s—habit for swiping records. He nodded soberly at the ground. “Good… thank you.” The old coot shook his head. “They’re just kids now, I know. But they’re all we’ve got here.” He looked up at the pair. “I’m surprised you two aren’t falling into bits too. They were already a good ways gone when I found them, I thought for sure the Phoenix was going to come for them before the day would die.” He gestured to the bandage now hidden by the shirt on Pete’s torso. “I mean, obviously you aint no stranger to struggle, but… you’re not howling like a ‘zoid.” He looked at the two of them. The last of the original Young Bloods. Alive. Here. He wanted to cry from being sheer star struck, but the graveness of the situation was also all too obvious. “…What happened to you cats? What brought you here?”

"Wait—" Patrick stopped Pete answering the question with a hand on the small of his back. "You said...the Phoenix?" He had not caught any references to the desert's version of grim reaper—or goddess—made by the Killjoys earlier that day. In fact, most of the "day" was a complete blur to him, which had the man worried. One step at a time, he tried to tell himself.

Dr. D nodded, a little surprised by the outburst. "The Phoenix Witch... If the lore's to be believed, The Phoenix Witch is... well, the collector of souls. A reaper, or a goddess of sorts. She comes at night and helps the dearly departed die-hards pass to the other side. Some think she's a sage, others a goddess... Some don't think she exists at all." Dr. D shrugged.  "It why all these cats wear masks... In hopes she finds them and takes your spirit to lay you to rest when you're done fighting the good fight."

“Phoenix Witch,” Pete breathed. He looked at Patrick. Hadn’t they said something similar when they’d started this crusade? When they wrote the Phoenix? So much was going through the minds of the Young Blood’s. What was this world they'd found themselves in? They'd meant to let the Phoenix fly as a call to arms or a beacon of hope. But this... The Phoenix was so much to these people that it was a fucking god to them. Was there actually a person? Was it just an idea? They had intended it to be an anthem but had never thought it would become the embodiment of...everything?

Patrick shook his head, trying to refocus. "What do YOU think she is?" Perhaps his explanation could throw some more pieces into the puzzle for them to assemble. "I-if you give me that, I'll tell you how we got here." It was his turn to bargain, in case the old fellow was reluctant with his opinion on that particular subject.

“What do I believe?"

 Dr. D had wondered that himself. The Phoenix as an idea had always been his guiding light. He'd been a little older than the Killjoys were now when the Young Bloods had first appeared and since then he'd completely forgotten what they'd looked like, but you could never forget that rush of power that came from hearing them. He stroked his beard, looking at the sand as he thought.

 "I believe... The Phoenix Witch is a woman who understands what the Phoenix is better than the rest of us... That... The Phoenix herself is more than just some reaper among the rocks. She's… power.” Now he was on a roll, as if there was a mike in front of his face and he was just on the radio. “The power to get up and fight every morning against people who try to silence the voices of others; the strength that we get when we see justice conquer and evil vanquished.”

As Dr. Death Defying began to talk, the desert seemed to hold its breath around them. Even the sun dialed back its radiant anger to listen to what the old man had to say. The blue sky stilled its ever-beating heart for the good doctor. The things that came spilling from old, weathered lips and a far more ancient soul were like poetry, melancholy as the virgin mary. But the old man wasn’t done yet.

Looking up to the sky he said, “She's the banner we wave together as we march on, always ready to stand up for each other. She's the hope we get when the sun sets and rises. A promise that we always have hope... Even when the static bites... our shadows live on to stand by those still fighting with us in their hearts."

He smiled a bit, looking back up at the pair. It felt great, finally telling his heroes after all these years just how much their work had meant to him, both way back then and now. "...That's what the Phoenix is to me."

Patrick bit his lower lip to keep from actually tearing up. He squeezed Pete's hand, as if to remind himself they were in a desert, listening to an old man in a wheelchair speak about a deity—or what have you—that some believed did not exist at all. But Patrick knew different. He was real and, like it or not, he conjured her, he’d conjured the Phoenix. It wasn't his own power, obviously—something about the element in that fucking brief case had brought this about, all of it. He was just a vessel—lucky or unlucky, for better or worse. The ginger let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding when Dr. D finished.

"I made a deal," Patrick said. "But..." He hesitated. "Truthfully I can only remember bits and pieces..." The young man hung his head, studying his shoes. "So I...can't really keep my half—" Then his head snapped up. "B-but Pete can!" He turned an expectant glance on Pete, standing silently beside him.

Suddenly Pete was on the spot, snapped out of the semi-tearful lull the good doctor had put him in. He stuttered and stalled a bit before explaining everything as best he could. For him, it’d been a week of just bizarre circumstances and danger, but for the good doctor, this was ancient legend. Dr. D said nothing, listening intently to Pete’s story as the bassist stumbled through his words to explain.

Once finished, the good Doctor readjusted himself in his wheel chair a bit before leaning back, his face rested in a pondering expression. He was still processing all of this new information. "So... what was in the case reacted with whatever weird wonder brought you here?"

"It's this...element—" Patrick shrugged helplessly. "You know, we never really knew what it was—just called it 'the element'..." He blushed, knowing how stupid that probably sounded. "It did something to me—to all of us, Pete, Andy...Joe—” Patrick stopped speaking when he said the name. He'd figured Andy was probably dead and that didn't help things; he'd died rescuing the singer. But Joe? Patrick had killed him—he hadn't known at the time but when the trigger wore off and the rage—or whatever it was—receded, he was standing over Joe's lifeless body. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, hand flexing hard around Pete's. The man was choking back tears.

Pete's arm was around the ginger's waist the second the guitarist's name was said, holding the small man close. Joe's death wasn't something long long ago like it was to the old man or anyone from this era. It'd been just yesterday for the Bassist. Fuck... had it really just been yesterday...? Pete was starting to bite back his own tears. He took a breath, focusing on the old man in the wheel chair. Patrick was down and out for the moment, and it was up to Pete to continue.

 "...It... It amplified us. The noise and music... it was like... riding lighting. We were gonna use it to put on a show... show the lurkers that we weren't afraid, ya know?" The old man nodded, reminding Pete of that one cool uncle everyone had. He just sat there, listening to the story that the last half of FOB rattled off between trying not to cry and trying to piece together what hell they'd gone through. "...Shit just went wrong..."

"Hearing you loud and clear, cats..." The doctor bit his lip, thinking. It was good to finally have some sort of idea of what had happened, even if it was a bit vague. You couldn't blame the boys. They there beaten and battered. He did dare one more question. "...Did the boys have this element mojo with them when they came over? Do you know?"

"No," Pat shook his head. "This is the first we'd heard of it—I mean...there were rumors, of course." He pulled himself back to business as quickly as he could, but kept very close to Pete, despite the burning sun and scorching sand and dead shrubbery all around them. "They were just...around one second and gone the next...like, they broke up and then fell off the face of the earth." He knew they'd split to further pursue the Youngblood cause quietly, but beyond that, he had no idea. "D'ya think...what happened to us..." He gestured between himself and Pete. "Happened to them?"

Dr. D shrugged, putting his hands up a bit. "...I don't know much of what else brings Rock N Rollers to the doorstep of the desert. This kinda shit don't exactly come with a manual or pamphlets." He sighed, letting his hands flop to his lap. "I'm inclined to believe your element's mojo is what's keeping you from collapsing like popped balloon." He shook his head. The old doctor was a kid rebel, turned solider, turned radio host. He knew nothing about science or machines. What he did know was that he was in the middle of a war and BLI's side was just getting more and more complicated...

"They tried to take us out—half succeeded and now I'm..." Patrick was comfortable summing the situation up until he reached the point where he had to describe what had been done to him. Much of the actual torture was a blur but what he DID remember made him wish he couldn't. "Well it's...it's not perfect, anyway." He was referring, of course to the mind control. "I snap in and out...do...is anyone in THIS world...err...timeline...uh like me?"

D raised an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. "If by like you, you mean the yellow eyes, then no."

The Young Bloods sighed in relief. Finally some good news, but something in Dr. D's posture made him stop. No yellow eyes was a good thing... right?

But apparently, the good Doctor wasn’t finished. "No... BLI doesn't need music or pain to turn people anymore. Now adays they just slide on a drac mask and let the 'zoid take over, no on and off, no questions asked." He looked at Patrick. "They developed a way to channel the beast while keeping the body behaving. Turn your everyday Joe into an order's-ready foot soldier." A sigh pulled itself from the doctor’s weathered lips. "…Phoenix only knows what happens to those poor souls." He looked back up at the pair. "You can't take off a drac mask once it's on. You pull that thing off, they bite static hard. Whoever was in the body before, they're long gone..."

Patrick shuddered and tilted his body into Pete's, wrapping his remaining hand around the back of the bassist's neck, shoving his face into the man's shoulder. He was about to lose it, just fall apart and start crying—or scream...It wasn't clear at that moment. The memories of what those women had done to him were becoming crystal clear again. On the one hand, he was glad no one else had been subjected to it—or not that they knew—but the fact they'd used him on a trail to get to their perfected method made the ginger ill. "We fucked up, Pete," he mumbled. "I fucked up...bad."

Pete bit the inside of his lip, holding the vocalist close. He was close to vomiting himself. He'd seen what those bitches had done to Patrick. He'd watched his best friend try and break free from bonds so he could kill Pete and be helpless to do a thing about it. And all that pain had been a stepping stone for these sick mother fuckers... "There's nothing we could've done, Patrick," he said, using the ginger's full name for emphasis, hoping his words would be some kind of consolation. "...shit, there's nothing that we could've done..." The words were said, but he felt just as guilty. They could try to defend themselves, but the true judgment was weighed against the soul, not the tongue.

Dr. D watched, but for once had nothing to say. The man of many words was speechless. Every desert boy fantasized about meeting the original young bloods. Dr. D had never wanted to meet them, only thank them, as meeting would mean they'd have to see the sinkhole this world had become that, in all honesty, they'd helped make. Either way, D wanted nothing more than to put these cats to bed and just pray things would be alright in the morning.

It was an ugly time they'd been thrown into, and something for which neither could have ever been prepared. Patrick hated himself for being so foolish with something so delicate, for putting his boys—no, his brothers in danger, and ultimately killing two of them. If there was any chance to save this shitty situation, it would be in the heart of the BLI superfortress--which he assumed was what these guys were calling Battery City. The ideas forming in his head were dangerous, and all sorts of wrong but there wasn't much choice. The vocalist sniffed, gathered himself and turned, the green of his eyes made brilliant by the redness around them.

"Doc," he started shakily. "I've...got an idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! So excited to give this one to you guys! Been working on it for a while and I hope you like it! y'alls know the drill (First each month, each author takes a turn editing a chapter, etc., etc.), so I'll say see you next month!   
> Also! Hook and I would like to formally dedicate this chapter to phantomfrank, or "folie_a_wentz," Which ever name they're using now. We loved to see the incredibly excited comments, especially when we first started posting. After folie_a_wentz left us multiple incredibly excited comments, We were so overjoyed to see someone so excited about this brain child we'd developed that wasn't one of us. Discussions about Phoenix often mentioned how such and such a thing would "blow folie_a_wentz's mind." It was great. You are amazing, friend. Never change ~Duchess


	9. Homesick at Space Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party Poison and Fun Ghoul haven't had any time to themselves... It's been run, shoot, hide, sleep, run--and then to suffer so much loss so quickly. Such a burden is bound to weigh on two young souls. They need an outlet, some time to themselves and to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost exclusively unrepentant sexual activity. If you're offended by such a thing, ctrl+f to the sentence "And Party Poison was rumored to be the best in that field."
> 
> On a side note, this one's early--it's a, uh...gift for all you patient people.

_“My smile's an open wound without you...and my hands are tied to pages inked to bring you back.”_

~

As the door closed behind a very eager Party Poison, Ghoul backed further in, impossibly fast hands gripping Poison by the upper arms of his jacket and pulling him completely past the threshold.

"I'll sleep after this," he whispered. "I promise."

His lips met Poison's and his arms snaked around the other boy's body. They were both dusty, sweaty, and filthy, so it wasn’t too much of a burden to combine the two. The shower itself would have to be quick—such was the nature of the beast—so messing around _beforehand_ made more sense, economically speaking. Poison chuckled, economizing being the literal last thing on his mind.

"You'd better," his sentence came out in a heated breath. Part of him was concerned with his partner's wellbeing, of course, but the most active bit of his brain was far more interested in something else entirely. His mouth committed itself to Ghoul while his hands worked to remove his bright blue jacket and undershirt. The flame-haired one stepped out of his boots, kicking them to the side. It wasn’t a particularly gradual show, but their mouths and eyes were otherwise occupied.

Ghoul rather enjoyed Poison's preferred method of "showing him who's boss." It was part of the reason he egged the redhead on as he did, acting like a total jackass whenever possible. The speed with which Poison could disrobe was always amazing to the dark-haired Killjoy. The fact that their mouths were still attached for much of it was also amazing. When Poison had shed everything but his pants, he grabbed Ghoul, who couldn't bite back a gasp.

"Yeah, boss?"

Poison was aggressive and possessive. He took what was his with a passion, and Ghoul was no exception. The miniscule Killjoy was a piece of shit. But he was Poison's piece of shit, therefore he needed to be reminded to whom he belonged and who was in charge.

"That's a fucking order," Party Poison growled. He didn't want Ghoul running on empty for much longer than he had to, but he was in no position to say no to a shower, or what came before. One hand moved from groping Ghoul to start undoing the buckles on his blaster holster, mouth still pressed to his partner wherever he could reach.

"On the double," Ghoul answered, somehow making the stark military response into a 'come hither' using his body only. His wicked lips curled into an equally sinful smile for a moment, until they were once again forcefully claimed by the ever-so-talented Party Poison. The guy was undoing his blaster whilst holding Ghoul in place with his lips alone. Thoughts of death, failure, deterioration...they were all so far away right then. For the moment, things were...pretty okay.

Poison let the docker’s clutch holster fall to the floor. The volatile, green blaster was in no danger of going off due to the presence of a solid trigger guard and the rule that all blasters be disabled when not in immediate sight of a window and therefore a target. The diner was decently fortified, all things considered, and rather easily defendable due to the vast amounts of wasteland without.

The only thing between him and his inky-haired partner being the tight denim jeans and his underwear, all of which needed a wash, but none so as bad as the boy himself who was eager to make his companion moan, 'wishing to be the friction in your jeans' be damned. Poison couldn’t help smiling at one of his favorite lines from an old, totally retro Fall Out Boy song.

A moment more of this kissing and Ghoul pried himself away, stroking his partner's cheek roughly, a gesture that felt ages old. They'd only been so intimate for the past...how long? Was it a month? Two? A year? He blinked the question away, not giving it too much thought; now was hardly the time. Rapidly sinking to his knees before Poison, he looked up through mischievous eyes.

"Let me get those, babe,” the Killjoy intoned, offering a smile of utter eroticism as their secret nicknames spilled back out. Ghoul was glad to have been the first one to aid their resurfacing. He leaned forward and kissed at his boy's bony hip just above the hem of his jeans. Gripping the front bit, he tugged gently at the eyelet that held the button, “if ya don't mind."

Poison grinned at the boy on his knees. He loved the little guy, though would never say it out loud. They did have to _try_ and keep things professional for the sake of the crew. There were some days it was a miracle Poison could keep the other off him for any amount of time, and the reverse was just as strue.

"Knock yourself out," he responded, practically purring the words at his partner.

The purr was Ghoul’s trigger to go. He pulled the appropriate flap back over the button and then slid them apart, tugging the pants down Poison's beautiful, white thighs—who wears short shorts in a desert?—and trailing soft, playful kisses behind the fabric. Ghoul was going to be true to his nature as littlest shit and take his sweet goddamn time.

Poison let out a quiet sigh, glad to get his pants off, but, god, Ghoul was a fucking terror who brought out the best and sometimes the worst in the redhead. It really all depended on what his mouth was doing, in perfect honesty. Poison would either get the urge to slap or kiss the idiot. Both were equally effective at their respective jobs.

Ghoul raised a brow when he got just above the other's knee and then began kissing back up. This time, he continued onward, ending at Poison's nipple—as that was the height he could reach without tilting his head upward—and grasped one of the boy's thighs from the outside. Ushering it upward, he gently forced the redhead to step out of his pants, all the while sucking and kissing at his chest. A chuckle escaped those wicked lips.

"Makes ya wanna hit me—dun' it?" He knew he infuriated the other teen, was doing it on purpose, and loving every minute.

"Seriously thinking about it," the redhead answered, sounding as though he'd like nothing better than pin the boy to a wall and make him sing the tune of Poison's choosing. That'd wipe that damned grin of his face.

"So do it," the kneeling one goaded, his mouth inches from that oh-so-tender space between Poison's legs. His underwear were barely in the way; Ghoul could rip them off with his teeth—something he'd done before. Once more, he gave that shit-eating grin which, on the outside and to anyone who didn't know him, was full of innocence and complimented by his ridiculous baby face. Poison knew better.

The Fab Four’s leader definitely wasn't going to do it now, not with Ghoul still telling him what to do. He returned the grin, fingers meshing with the dark-haired Killjoy's locks. He didn't smack the boy on his knees. Oh no, he simply gripped tight, tugging gently but forcefully, making Ghoul meet his eyes.

"Take it off," he growled, in reference to the thin sheet of fabric still between them.

One eye squinted shut at the rough handling. Ghoul liked it, but of course it still hurt, a bit. The growl was what really got him, though; it was positively feral and shook Ghoul to his core. This was what he'd been looking for. He licked his lips and leaned forward, hands sliding up Poison's thighs from behind, this time, following each curve of his youthful legs, his ass...Ghoul curled his fingers over the elastic in back and used his teeth in front.

"As you wish," the heavily tattooed Killjoy spoke through his teeth.

Poison sighed a bit, spine arching and shoulders rolling down. His eyes fluttered shut a bit, feeling his partner's warm breath and touch so close. Ghoul was a terror, but in the absolute best way possible. Poison's hands started to slowly release the dark hair in their grasp as Ghoul moved.

With a swift, gentle motion, the dark-haired one had his partner's undergarments down to his ankles. Back up on his knees, cheek pressed against Poison's hip, he ushered the boy forward, to step out of the confining garments. One hand was still on Poison's lower back, the other was sliding its way up the leg opposite the hip on which Ghoul's cheek and jaw were still resting...just lazily following the curvature of young muscle and the soft, pale flesh.

Poison used one foot to kick the underwear away, toward the rest of his clothes which were strewn about, across the bathroom floor. He knew the others were probably starting to notice the communal absence Poison and Ghoul were taking, but he honestly couldn’t have been bothered to care unless his brother had come pounding on the door.

Poison's fingers slid down a bit, brushing the scorpion and scissors on either side of Ghoul's neck. The boy's body was a work of art, one that only Poison had seen in its full entirety. Ghoul tilted his head back, biting his lower lip and fairly mewling into the touch. He was very much like a cat during times like these.

"Scratch harder, babe and I'll _really_ start to purr."

The hand on Poison's thigh rested on his hip then, thumb twirling soft circles on the skin. It was very difficult for Ghoul not to knock Poison over and take him right there on the floor—or at least struggle for it. That was half the fun, anyway. Sometimes they ended up giving each other unintended bruises and bloody lips but it was all in fun. Poison grinned, moving his fingers from the edges of the shapes he knew so well.

"I'm counting on it," responded Party Poison. If Fun Ghoul was a cat, the Fab Four’s leader was his master, knowing exactly how to please him. Had they more time and more of an empty house, perhaps they would've moved in a different, slower-paced direction, but for now they had the miracle of a shower waiting for them and a room full of people besides.

Things could get very wild with the two of them, but could not afford to right now. They were both loud, both persistent and neither Ghoul nor Poison was shy about using his voice. Unfortunately, proximity and time being what it was, this would have to be quick and quiet—because _damn_ a shower sounded good, and being discovered did not. Ghoul didn’t seem to care, as his next promise refected:

"I'm gunna make ya sing, boss."

It wasn't a question. With the dexterity of a feline—or perhaps someone much older and more experienced—he slid his hand across Poison's bony hips to the junction of his thighs. What awaited him there was a bit of the group’s leader with which only Ghoul was intimately familiar. One more Cheshire grin and his mouth was closing down around the head and lower, taking it all in. Go big or go home, he figured—and then wondered whence such an archaic phrase had arisen.

True to form, Party Poison tilted his head back, leaning heavily on the wall behind him for support. He felt the sensitive head of his cock hit the back of Ghoul’s throat as the other boy went down on him completely. His hands gripped feebly at tile walls and then Ghoul’s hair. It was a better anchoring point. Here, he was in a good position to fuck his partner’s mouth, or just hang on for dear life.

Ghoul began to slide his mouth back up, wondering if Poison would force him down again—taking charge was kind of his M.O.—or just let the green-themed Killjoy do his thing. When all he heard were helpless gasps and calloused fingers clinging to his hair, the tattooed, zone-running badass realized he was going to have sweet control in this situation.

His mouth, lips perked in a sinful “O” shape, popped off the swollen head of Poison’s cock, which bounced a little with the change in angle. The taller Killjoy looked down, face a mask of disappointment and frustration, two things Ghoul was accustomed to seeing, and this was his favorite angle.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” hissed Party Poison, face flushed and sweaty behind a curtain of matted red. “Don’t test me.”

Ghoul licked his lips and nodded. As much as he wanted to keep “testing” his partner, the guy was right. They had to get going, get off, get clean and get gone. Such was the life of any zone runner, Killjoy or not. He closed red lips around Poison’s cock once more.

Leaning his head back, Party Poison allowed a languid moan to escape his lips. It was somewhat muted, but he knew everyone was in the front room, so they could afford to be a _little_ noisy. Ghoul’s hand wrapped around the base and began to aid his mouth as the shaft became slicker. His formerly unoccupied hand cupped his teenage leader’s scrotum, gently juggling his balls, fingers dancing and teasing here and there.

This activity brought more than just a little moan from the taller Killjoy and he was forced to stuff a knuckle into his mouth to silence the obscene noises issuing therefrom. Ghoul would’ve chuckled had his mouth not been full of dick. He felt as though that happened a lot—a perfect chance for laughter, cut off by cock.

“Y-you’re unbelievable,” Poisoned, hissed. “S-so unbelievable, ughn….y-you ruin _everything_.”

It was his way of dirty-talking. Poison wasn’t the type to sling nasty insults. He never called Ghoul a slut, or implied that his sexual appetite made him any kind of oddity. It was always slams against his jackassery—which, Ghoul had to admit—could reach some serious levels of bullshit.

Poison found his hips beginning to rock of their own volition, despite his best efforts to stop them. He didn’t intend to fuck his friend’s face, after all, but _damn_ —Ghoul’s mouth was something magical. The latter pulled off for a breath, gazing up at his olive-eyed partner, cheeks flushed, grime only partially covering the dark red. A headache was hovering at the back of his eyes, threatening, but not really pressing. He wasn’t going to let it stop him.

This view was too perfect, for both parties. Party Poison enjoyed seeing his best friend’s mouth inches from his leaking, rock-hard dick, a trail of saliva connecting the two. Fun Ghoul absolutely adored the way his partner’s lips were parted, making something of an “O” and his chest was heaving to force breath in and out between those lips.

Ghoul’s hand wrapped around Poison’s cock, his mouth trailing up the shaft, leaving kisses all the way to the patch of dark hair at the base. His tongue trailed up through that, all the way to Poison’s belly button. His flesh was flawless—scarred, burned and bruised, but otherwise unmarked. It was so fresh, waiting to be marked. Ghoul’s teeth sunk into his partner’s hip bone.

He knew he was asking for a swat, or at least a muffled protest. When nothing came, Ghoul looked back up. Poison was, instead of hollering at him for being a brute, toying with one very pert nipple. Naturally, Ghoul reached up to help him with the other one as his hand worked on the guy’s cock.

His poor dick was just _begging_ to be touched, but he’d not done a thing for it. He was hard as a rock, throbbing and aching, but this was part of the game. Anyway, it was way too much fun watching Poison writhe and buck into his hands, his nimble fingers doing magic on the poor guy’s body as he was pinned mercilessly against the tile wall of the shitty, tiny, dimly-lit bathroom.

Poison felt the heat built between his legs, boiling his core and causing everything in him to tense up. His back arches involuntarily as Ghoul’s thumb works furiously at the sensitive head, pinching the boy’s foreskin and toying with everything his calloused fingers can reach. Both Poison’s hands became suddenly occupied in his friend’s hair as his orgasm exploded out through its primary outlet.

Ghoul moved his face down to receive, opening his mouth and catching much of the other’s ejaculate, grinning widely and swallowing it all. He licked his lips as if it was the most satisfying meal he’d had in days. The Fab Four’s leader bit his lip and blushed deeply watching this spectacle.

The obscenity of it brought Ghoul’s hands down to his own, still-neglected erection. He was close enough already, watching his partner’s expressions and feeling him shudder helplessly as he came undone. As Poison sank to a sitting position, leaning on the chilly wall, Ghoul began to tug at himself, biting his lower lip.

He felt a hand on his shoulder for only a moment before the pressure came, forcing him to shift to his ass and then his back. Poison came down atop him, a hand between their bodies and his lips sliding up Ghoul’s throat to his square jaw.

“I’m gunna make you see stars,” whispered the redhead into his partner’s ear, tongue flickering out to trace the outer rim. His graceful, long-fingered hand was wrapped securely around Ghoul’s cum-slick cock. The miniature Killjoy arched his hips, attempting to fuck the tight hole provided by his partner’s hand.

“C’mon,” groaned Fun Ghoul. “You’ve gotta be…kidding me.”

Poison shook his head against Ghoul’s neck and trailed kisses up his jaw until their lips met once more. With his typical fierceness, Poison once more claimed what was his and slowly, ever-so-slowly, began to relieve his partner. He allowed Ghoul’s hips to move in time with his pumping, keeping a relatively tight grip on the plump little cock between them.

“Come for me,” coaxed the premier Killjoy. “Be a good little terror, for once, huh?”

His words came between heated kisses, tongue dancing along those red lips, battling with Ghoul’s like appendage, tasting everything. Helplessly, the pinned Killjoy nodded, wanting nothing more than to do just that, but lacking the order. He wanted so much more than he was getting, but this was good enough in the middle of a wasteland.

Ghoul came, hard, stars blacking out his vision momentarily as he spilled his seed between them, coating his friend’s stomach and hand, along with his own torso. He came to a few moments later to Poison’s mouth lapping up the mess on his inked body and a massive, splitting headache. The climax might have strained him more than he’d been anticipating.

Who was he trying to fool? Ghoul knew exactly the situation in which he’d placed himself, knew that doing something like this might aggravate whatever had happened. He thought he’d possibly gotten through the worst of it, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Groaning, he allowed himself to feel at least a little satisfaction from the greatest handjob he’d ever experienced before gagging.

“Ghoul?” Poison immediately stopped his sensual tongue bath and crawled back up to meet his partner’s sweaty gaze. Brushing a few strands of inky black out of Ghoul’s face, the redhead stared intently into those eyes, trying hard to read what might be going on behind them.

“I’m okay,” whispered Ghoul in response, “trust me.”

For some reason, trust was the farthest thing from Poison’s mind, given the situation, but he didn’t really have a choice, or time to argue.

“C’mon,” he coaxed, standing and turning to the shower. He cranked it on until it was good and hot before turning back to assist Ghoul standing. The taller teen was familiar with the jelly-legs feeling and was more than happy to provide a shoulder and more. Ghoul insisted on getting up by himself, however, swatting his partner’s hand away.

“I’ve got it,” he assured Party Poison.

“Okay,” came the skeptical reply, “if you say so. Should we maybe get in and actually conserve water, though?”

Slowly, Ghoul nodded, the smile returning to his handsome, young face. The water sounded so inviting. It was going to _feel_ good, too, if he could convince himself to actually put one foot in front of the other to reach it. Poison was already in and soaked. Ghoul let that sight propel him. He climbed in and was instantly enveloped by Poison’s arms.

Their bodies pressed together under the spray, hands grasping and feeling and following curves. Poison had, upon entering, retrieved a bar of soap. For being in the desert, soap was surprisingly cheap, and no one asked why. It was better that way. He ran the slick bar down the curve of Ghoul’s back and followed it with a gentle hand, spreading the lather around.

They drew apart long enough to share another, drawn-out kiss, before exchanging the soap between them. It was Ghoul’s turn. The movements were gentle, slow and deliberate. They were going to enjoy their one shower for probably a month. No one else seemed to be complaining, after all. The sudden appearance of the original Young Bloods had seen to that.

Darkened water flowed down the drain, taking with it blood, sweat, grease, and dirt. It was a mental and spiritual cleansing as well as physical. It did not, however, negate the loss of their precious ward.

“We have to get her back,” Poison muttered to himself, running soapy hands down Ghoul’s sides. Fun Ghoul’s arms were around his neck and his face was pressed to the side of Poison’s throat. He felt the vibrations of rage through the taller boy’s vocal flaps and nodded.

“The Young Bloods are here, man,” Ghoul responded quietly, voice barely audible above the flow of water from their decently-maintained showerhead, “and I think that’s gotta count for something.”

“They’re just as clueless as we are, right now,” Poison was quick to point out, “or worse, because they’ve never actually _been_ here.”

The desert was unforgiving and absolutely would have claimed two more victims had it not been for the fortuitous arrival of the Fabulous Four—however accidental that whole thing had been. The Killjoys had saved Pete and Patrick, not vice versa. Knowing they were the real thing did nothing to negate that fact.

“What I mean is—look, Dr. D is always talking about a fresh perspective, right?” Ghoul referred to the old man with affection. They all loved the guy; he was Desert Dad, and his station was a haven for the hunted, his words a salve for the slave, his tunes a mixture for the misunderstood. The guy was a fucking saint. Therefore, anything he said or was quoted as saying gave any good zone runner pause.

And Party Poison was rumored to be the _best_ in that field.

“You think they’ve got something to offer…?”

In the front of the diner, Dr. Death Defying had settled himself to just watching the pair. He felt as though he was intruding, that opening his loquacious mouth would just make everything worse. It was probably better for them to hear the real situation in this place from him, however, instead of finding it out on their own, the hard way. They’d been through enough.

He was startled out of his reverie when Patrick spoke up and affirmed that he did, indeed have something to offer. Dr. D really had no choice but to acknowledge this, as the current state in which the Fab Four now found themselves was dire, without the Girl.

"Alright... Shoot me with it, scout," responded the wheelchair-bound man. He shared a look with the bloody, battered bassist—who was still tightly holding Pat's hand—that showed neither of them knew what was about to come out of the short musician’s mouth.

"You're going on to rescue that girl," Patrick had paid enough attention to the Killjoys to know some of what had happened to them in the past day or so. He licked his parched lips and tilted his face up toward the sun, "and we're going with you. That device is in there—the arc we fell through is still there, in the heart of that complex, if that was LA..."

"Patrick and I need to get back through there...we need to make this right,” Pete added, realizing where Patrick was going with this whole thing and agreeing one hundred percent. Dr. D put his hands up as if to halt a stampede.

"Hold on, cats... You don't know what you're talkin’ about... These music munchers ain't just bunch of models with swords and spears anymore. They've taken over just about everything, bending minds of men and women to tear you apart on sight! Those Draculoids out in the desert that took our Girl weren't just a-cruisin’ for a good time! They were looking for _you_! They see you, they ain't gonna let you walk by or kill you."

He shook his head, wheeling his chair closer to the pair, making sure they heard him. They were listening, most definitely. This new piece of information—the idea that their adversaries had sensed the arrival—was definitely something to keep in mind.

"Whatever pain and tortures they dished out in your day, imagine it again, but this time louder and ten times worse, bending your mind ‘til it snaps right in two!!"

He shook his head, the scenario playing out in his mind, making him physically wince. Pete and Patrick were doing much the same, the thoughts arising unbidden.

"And there ain't no comin’ back from that. You'll be up with the Phoenix Witch before you ever had a chance to get into whatever lab you're a lookin’ for!"

Pete looked at the old man, then at his partner. He knew what the man was saying was probably true. It was a slim chance they could luck their way in, find the machine, and get back to fix all of this mess—assuming the machine would send them to the right place and time. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that going back and fixing it from their time was the only way they could save all of these people, the Killjoys and everyone that BLI had hurt. For some reason, it was the only logical answer, and that scared him.

"...We have to try," Pete dared, taking advantage of the pause in the old man's speech. He looked to Patrick and squeezed him for reassurance. "Shit, whatever we did to make this world... if there's even a chance we can reverse it... then we should at least _try_..."

"We screwed up, Doc," Patrick pointed out, "and you know it but you're not saying it; for that I'm thankful—but I killed a man..." His jaw was tight and he tried so hard not to shake but he had Pete's corded, tattooed arm to stop him, "I killed a friend and caused another one to die..." He shot a look at Pete. "And I know Andy's dead; don't ask me how."

They were up the creek without a paddle and they had to do something, _anything_ to make it right. This was the wildest conclusion anyone could have reached in any circumstance, but once again, Pete found himself nodding in agreement under that blistering sun.

"If we die, we die—we're dead either way..." It was a surprisingly downtrodden speech for Patrick Stump but he knew the reality of their situation.

D sighed, leaning back in his chair. He dropped his head in his hand, running it through his hair as if the frustration was as easy to pull out as the gray on his head. Between these boys and the kids inside, he was surrounded by headstrong fools, intent on a suicide mission. Unfortunately, he had made it his mission to help as many zone runners survive as possible. These kids weren’t making it easy.

"Damn... No wonder Poison loves you so much," the old fellow muttered, looking at the singer. He could understand, but could never agree with. He leaned forward again, lips pursed a moment before his brows pulled together and he opened his mouth once more.

"...I cannot condone this time-turnin' you want to do... Getting the girl is the Fab Four’s mission, and they ain't gonna give up ‘til they get her back, that much you can be sure of, so," He looked between the eyes of the dark-haired bassist and the ginger singer, already picturing them in those crisp, white, BLI body bags. It made him cringe, "you talk to Poison... He says yes, well," D patted his busted legs, “there's not exactly a whole lot I can do to stop you."

"I'm not asking permission to do what's right, Doc," Patrick replied, “and I'm _really_ not asking a pocket version of Gerard Way."

He kept the last part quiet, so as not to disturb the Killjoys he knew were trying to listen. The ginger would have done the same as a nosy-ass teenager. He pressed closer to his friend for support, but seemed to be standing on his own two feet for once. Patrick was scared out of his mind, but they needed to go through with his plan; there was no question in his mind that the portal was in the center of BLI headquarters and the Fabulous Four were their only in. The tiny vocalist shifted his attention onto Pete, turned his body toward him and offered his stump of an arm to hold.

"Pete, if you...don't wanna do this,” Patrick trailed off, figuring the rest was obvious. Pete shook his head, gently taking the singer’s bandaged appendage.

"I'm coming with you Pat... I'm never letting you go again, so,” Pete gave the ginger a small smile, “you really can’t stop me."

He was through with losing people. They were going to go back. They were going to make it right. This time, they were going to do it together. They wouldn't let some bitch and her manicured minions tear them apart one by one. Pete had been an idiot, and because of that, they'd lost so much. The bassist realized they were being presented with an opportunity that had likely been given to few other people in the history of mankind. It was a chance to affect real, palpable, change.

He breathed a sigh of relief, heart still pounding as Pete held his hand and wrist, unafraid. Patrick looked up into his partner's face and saw in hot whiskey eyes a resolve never before seen on the features of the flighty bassist. The vocalist knew then and there that he would never be alone again, that whatever happened to them—here or there or wherever they were—Pete Wentz was going to be by his side.

"Let's see if we can get those kids to teach us how to shoot..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Duchess and I were talking, and we wanted to see if any of you guys would be interested in a livestream or chat with us at some point. I mean, we're not actual celebrities, but in our minds, we like to pretend. I'll be getting a new computer within the month, so I'll have the capability to sustain such a thing... Let us know in the comments if you think that'd be a good idea.


	10. DESTROYA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now's the time to prepare, getting ready for the big firefight. Spirits are high, thoughts are deep, and the world as we know it turns on. The Fab Four and the Fall Out fellas are making plans and resting up. Big things are just around the corner, and everyone can feel it. With the Phoenix Witch watching the sky, who can say what will happen?

_“They leave us all behind, with duct tape scars on my honey. They don't like who you are, You won't like where we'll go. Brother, protect me now.”_

~

"It's a good thing you're right handed," the FOB front man teased, gently releasing the remains of Patrick's left stump. He looked over at Doctor D, whose face was grim despite the weak laughter gently erupting from the short singer’s mouth as a response to Pete’s flippant dismissal of his handicap.

"Thank you, Doc," Pete intoned almost reverently. He'd known the old man for a span of maybe 20 minutes, but the way the guy carried himself, how he was so cool and kind, the bassist felt like they’d known each other for years, "and thanks for taking care of our boys."

"Please, I wasn't just going to leave 'em lyin 'round. What kind of creature do you take me for? I’ll do whatever I can to help you fellas too, in fact," the wheelchair-bound man responded, waving his thanks off and quickly moving to the next subject. A grin now rested on the old man’s weathered face, "I might have some blasters in the truck, but I can't say for sure how many battery packs I have...."

He grumbled and wheeled his chair to the doors in the back, struggling a bit to open them, but succeeding in the end. He pulled out two of the white guns, identical in shape to those belonging to the Fabulous Four, but devoid of customization.

"Here. The boys can show you how to use 'em better than I can, but they'll do ya just fine."

Saying a quick thanks to the good doctor after receiving their gifts, Patrick took a deep breath and Pete’s hand, then turned to head back into the old diner. It was hot outside, almost painfully so, with the sun beating down on the desert’s new visitors with an unrelenting glare. They really needed to get into the shade if only to reassure themselves that the thoughts spiraling out of control in their head were not due to heatstroke. While Pete was deciding to give up on making sense, Patrick’s headache pounded to the beat of his heart, madness slowly slithering free from a breach in his mental walls, eating him from the inside out.

He just knew, in the back of his mind, that this whole ordeal would ruin them both forever. Something told him that—in the case of Gerard and his band—it already had.

The diner’s friendly chime rang as he shoved the door open and led the way in. Kid and Jet clambered away from the windows, trying to look innocent in the guiltiest way. Patrick just raised a brow at them before approaching.

"Can either of you shoot?" He was unconcerned with their eager presence at the windows, as his mind was occupied with learning how to defend himself and his partner.

“Yeah, of course, dude,” Mikey/Kobra said, giving Pat a bit of an ‘are you kidding me?’ look. What a stupid question. Who didn’t know how to shoot? Well, these guys, obviously, but they had an excuse. It was pretty good excuse, too. Didn’t mean they could keep blundering around like fools.

Everything in this place was new and weird for the Young Bloods. The blaster in Pete’s hand felt weird, as It was too light to be a weapon, but yet... it was. It looked like a dime-store novelty that he’d play with as a little kid. The fact that it was a really weapon was a thought that struck him as completely ridiculous.

"Teach us," he said, not as a request but a demand.

"We can teach ya, don’t worry," a voice came from the back. The miniscule Killjoy promised Poison he'd sleep after their shared shower but as usual, he was making shit up. Ghoul was in pants and his vest, shirt discarded and boots strapped up. His hair was wet, clinging to his forehead.

It took everything in Pete to not shout out "Frank! I never thought you could get any smaller!" as the teen walked in. If his face hadn't given it away, the kid's ink certainly would've, because damn, no one had tattoos like Frank Iero.

Shit, holding this back was going be harder than previously thought. A little mini MCR. The kids would be downright cute if they weren't packing so much heat. Had their circumstances been less dire, Pete and Patrick would surely have just laughed aloud.

"First off, you might want to load 'em," Jet said, climbing out of the booth in which he and Kobra Kid had been sitting. Kobra continued where Jet left off, sliding himself out of the bench and his sunglasses onto his face.

"Fresh from the machines, they don't have battery packs.” Jet ducked behind the counter and came out with two small rectangles with the smiling BLI logo on the side. He tossed them both to Pete, unsure of Patrick's catching abilities as Kid continued, "and each pack only gives you about... 30 to 35 shots each. We’ve tried modifying them and such to enhance battery life, more power output for less cost but…it’s the best we can do."

It was then that an unmistakable, red haired pint sized Gerard Way emerged from the back, purposely shoving Ghoul a bit as he shook some water from his wet, red mane. He needed to make it clear he wasn’t happy with his comrade’s actions, but wasn’t about to call him out in public; he also needed to strive to make sure no one suspected what they’d been up to in the shower. To that end, he focused on the events around him. It didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on.

“Young Bloods gonna learn to shoot?”

"That girl is important,” Patrick said, by way of explanation, “and we want to help getting her back.”

It was not a question. Much like Pete, he was giving an order or rather making a statement about his intentions. After all, he was one of the only adults in the room. The thought chilled him, but he had to step into his role as apparent “leader” of the Young Blood movement. He needed to be the hero these guys thought he was.

Or at least pretend to.

However, Poison was not comforted by the suggestion of aid, but rather infuriated. He could feel his blood start to boil, for some reason. Who did this guy think he was? Sure he was Patrick Stump and all, but him trying a lay a claim on the Girl... He tried to keep his cool.

"You're damn right we're getting her back," he said, "BLI take her out, and we're all fucked."  Not to mention the Killjoys would be emotionally crippled forever, never mind the dire consequences of such a powerful unknown being in the hands of their greatest enemy. Poison tried not to think about it.

"We're leaving at night and we'll get there just before dawn," he informed them, raising an eyebrow at the men, both of whom in the last hour were completely helpless and nearly dead. One was missing a hand. They weren't exactly his top pick for a rescue mission. “Make sure you can learn to shoot before then. I'm not taking any stragglers on this mission, I don't care who you are. You fall, you're dead."

As Pete inserted the pack and snapped the receiver into place, he heard a click followed with a quiet whine as the machine accepted the power source. It was about time to end this pissing contest. "Well then, we better quit talking shit and get started."

Well those were terms to which they could all agree.

As Patrick moved to follow Jet and Kobra outside, he glanced at Poison, who still had that angry flush on his cheeks. The ginger couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, not telling the Killjoys  about his plan, but he had to keep something between himself and Pete. Then again, he hadn't mentioned it to Pete yet, either—but it involved The Phoenix. It wasn't fully formed in his mind but slowly, as they made their way outside for target practice, pieces were beginning to fall into place

They walked around to the back of the dinner to work in the shade of the building. The four colorful Killjoys were excited to actually do something, and teaching the Young Bloods how to shoot? That was every scout’s dream.

Patrick wasn’t very good, but no one was exactly surprised, what with only having one hand to shoot with and not being used to wielding a weapon in general. Pete was a bit better, but his hands kept shaking and raising his arms hurt if he did it too fast. Kobra tried to help, coming behind him and putting his hand on Pete’s arm to help steady him, but it was just so odd to be near Mikey, even like this, that Pete had to step away.

Jet and Kobra shared a small look and a shrug, but moved on.

After nearly an hour of practicing, shooting, teasing from the Killjoys, and many many many broken bottles and paper drawings of draculoids, the two Young Bloods were fairly decent shoots. Not the best, but hey, they were just gonna have to take what they could get. They were destroying the targets as fast as the Killjoys could replace them.

"But these targets aren't moving," Ghoul observed, slapping Pete's ass to throw him off. "Or shooting back—" and he pinched Patrick. "So nut up, boys."

Pete shot Frank a look before lowering the blaster. But fun-sized-Frank was right, he’d never shot anyone that was moving, or returning fire. He was just going to have to hope and pray and shoot like a mad man. They’d survived everything so far. What was a little added danger? He turned to look at the colorful Killjoys that he knew by different names, who were cleaning up the broken glass and scorched paper.

"So, what exactly is the plan here?"  He asked, turning to look at the other killjoys, who all simply looked to Poison.

"Basic grab and go. Kill everyone who gets in the way," Poison summarized, as if this was going to be a trip to the power station. The way Dr. D looked at him, the way the others refused to, just screamed what no one would say: suicide mission. However, if they could get her out and away, then it was worth everything. Besides, they now had two more men who seemed... decent with the blasters. It would have to be enough. There was no hope for anyone if they didn't.

Patrick's plan was admittedly not much better than Poison’s. And while he had a hunch that running them in tandem would probably condemn them all, he knew he had to do it. The ginger didn't understand the significance of the Girl but if these miniature versions—though a majority were still taller than he was—of their punk/emo friends were so very attached to her, there must have been a reason.

Because the guy was kind of garbage with a weapon, he had to make up for it in other ways. Patrick gave himself one job, and that was to offer these kids hope. Hope was their only real weapon, at this point, blasters be damned. If the BLI was as powerful as the Killjoys suggested, they were in for one hell of a firefight. People would be shooting either way, so why not help the Fabulous Four believe they stood a chance.

The sun was past the tipping point and on her way down, as if moving closer to watch the tiny crowd of rebels as they talked and planned, beating down with warmth and heat to make them all sweat. Attention turned to the scarlet-headed Killjoy as he continued with machinations.

"We go tonight. You want any sleep before then, I suggest you do it now," he barked, mostly to the Young Bloods, but his eyes also landed on Ghoul in a not-so-subtle way. Poison had no time to deal with his shithead of a first mate, sadly, so Fun Ghoul escaped a lecture, for the time being. There was, after all, no time for lollygagging. They needed to get organized.

"Jet,” Poison snapped, “grab however many battery packs we got and load up the ‘Wagon."

 “You got it, boss,” Jet responded, sliding his blaster back in its holster and swatting Kid’s arm. “Yo, Kobra, come help me.” The fluffy-haired mechanic was more than eager to prep his baby for battle, and Kobra didn’t mind helping. The slick haired blond boy trotted off after the diminishing American flag on Jet’s back after shooting a quick smile to the exhausted, black-clad Young Bloods

It was these tuckered-out men on which Poison now turned his attention. "Wagon's a five-seater. So unless you wanna ride in the trunk again, I'd suggest arranging a ride with Dr. D."

"Yeah, we hear ya," Patrick responded, “but I think we’ll get some rest first.”

He tugged at Pete's shirt and dragged him back into the diner. They'd find a place to catch a little shuteye and then he'd explain his plan. It was shit and weird and probably suicidal but for some reason, in this strange desert, Patrick knew it would work.

Meanwhile, Ghoul helped Jet and Kobra load the wagon, working feverishly to forget the blood in his piss and the resounding ache in the back of his head. Something was horribly wrong but he'd be damned if he'd let Poison or the others notice.

As it turned out, he was doing a very poor job, since Poison _had_ detected something and just sighed as he watched his partner be an absolute dumbass. "Ghoul," Poison called once he'd caught up. The dark-haired boy wasn't going to look him in the eyes, but he knew he could hear. He didn't want to shout at the boy in front of Jet, for the sake of Ghoul's pride, but he was done just letting this slide. "Ghoul," he said again, quieter once close up, “you should be resting, man."

"Just let me—" The box in his hands fell, spilling its contents onto the dry dirt. Poison’s hands fluttered about helplessly for a few seconds.

“Wh-what’s going on? What’s happening?” Party Poison’s tone came out spluttered and squeaky.

"Nothing,” responded Ghoul, while pain drove him to his knees, "just...I gotta get inside—it's the heat, just the heat."

He wanted so badly for Poison to believe him, for his deteriorating health to go unnoticed. There was a fine line between protecting a friend's pride and letting a friend be a dumb ass, however. Poison figured Ghoul had just forced him to cross it. He took his partner’s arm for the second time that week, helping the idiot up while Jet was kind enough to pretend he didn’t see, starting to pick up the spilled box’s contents.

 "You fucking idiot," Poison whispered lovingly, helping the dark haired boy limp inside the diner, “how are you even still alive?"

"I dunno," Ghoul shrugged, “my extreme good looks?"

Truthfully, he felt like doubling over and screaming. His insides hurt, a lot and his head was beginning to pound again. Instinctively, the boy knew he didn't have long. "Okay—I'm going to...I've gotta just siddown."

He'd promised Poison he'd rest but he was suddenly worried he'd die before he woke up. Had the situation not been so dire, maybe Poison would've laughed or at least chuckled at the guy’s sheer, unmoving stubbornness. This was not the time for any kind of jokes, however. He hauled his dark-haired partner and dropped him in the seat of one of the booths, both trying to be gentle, but rough enough that his frustration was evident. He grabbed a water bottle from their reserves and slid it over to Ghoul.

"Drink," he commanded.

Ghoul took the bottle and put it to his lips. The water was cold and clear and god he was so damn thirsty. He knew he was busted, even without looking at his redheaded leader’s pursed lips and crossed arms.

"Poison, I'm pissing blood...." He finally admitted, keeping eyes downcast. "It's bad, okay?"

The redhead smacked the table in front of him, hissing curses. Ghoul had just confirmed Poison's fears. Just like he’d predicted, Ghoul was pushing himself much too hard. The situation would not resolve itself and they didn’t have time to let him heal. What Poison did not understand was just how ruined his friend actually _was_.

"Shit, Ghoul..." he looked out the window, biting his lip. He wished he didn’t have to say anything, that this would just blow over, but between an injury like this and their upcoming suicide mission, a line had to be drawn. "Shit," he said again. His eyes fell to stare at the table. There was a pregnant silence. No one could say the obvious that had to be said. With a sigh, Poison took up his role as leader, eyes glued to the table, unable to meet his partner’s gaze. "...Ghoul, if you're falling apart... I don't think I can have you out on the mission."

Now Ghoul smacked the table. "I'm dying," he hissed, to punctuate his earlier statement, "probably bleeding internally." The teen grasped his friend by the upper arms, holding tightly and forcing himself to look into Poison's eyes. "Just...stay with me, okay? Let me stay with _you_."

He knew they were going to die, that they wouldn't make it out, so he’d figured if he held on until the mission, he could at least die doing something useful.

‘He’s a rag doll pulling at its seams,’ the scarlet scalped Killjoy thought. But Poison had to admit, only part of the reason why he wanted to Ghoul to stay back was for his health. The other part had been the promise of almost certain death. It would be risky going in even with all four Killjoys at the top of their game. Even now, knowing that while their chances were infinitesimally slim, Ghoul’s was literally zero, he could not bring himself to feel okay about having his partner along.

Leaning forward, Poison took Ghoul’s hand. "I'll stay," he said. He'd stay for a while, at least. Until he _had_ to go. The Girl was more important than any of them. But right now, Ghoul was a mess and he needed someone to focus him.  Poison couldn’t do much, but he could sure as shit try. "I'll stay," he said again, a bit quieter with a gentle squeeze and a weak smile. "You're not dying on me, understand?"

"No, I can't...do that," Ghoul managed a weak chuckle. "Not to you—" Pinching the bridge of his nose, he wrinkled his face up 'til a wave of agony passed and he was alright again. The relief was heavenly. He looked up into Poison's face and offered a cheeky wink. His eyes were encircled in darkness and he looked like he'd been beaten ten ways to Sunday.

"Not to anyone," Poison ordered. "You're not dying period... I won’t allow it.” He looked out the window to where Kobra and Jet were shutting the Wagon’s trunk and high-fiving, like they’d just beat the high score on an old acrade game down at Doctor D’s station. “No one's dying today." He said the words with such conviction and confidence, it was hard not to believe him for however brief a moment. "Phoenix Witch comes a-callin’, you shoot that bitch in the face and keep running."

_Keep running..._

Korse's words played in Poison's mind again. Why he hadn't just shot the Fab Four when they were down, the redhead would never know.

_Keep running..._

Phoenix knows the boys hardly did anything else.

"Just lemme curl up in the back broom closet, okay?" Ghoul requested, gently pulling at Poison’s hand and pulling Poison’s mind to the present. "I'll be fine in there; it's dark..." He worked himself to his feet, standing nose-to-shoulder with Poison. He wrapped nimble fingers into the other boy's shirt and held on tight. Leaning his mouth up near the redhead's ear, he whispered harshly. "No way I'm going on like this." The conviction he felt was palpable, feeding off his friend's.

Poison gripped Ghoul's shirt, half supporting the little ‘Runner and half holding him close. "Just take a bit to recharge. You can't keep pushing yourself all the time..." He smiled, not wanting the true gravity of what task lay ahead of them sink in and refusing to allow the very fact of his friend’s impending death register in his brain. He led the two of them towards the small closet. Ghoul needed rest if he was gonna go anywhere. Though, Poison was still half debating locking Ghoul in the closet and going on this mission alone. At least then he wouldn't have to worry...

"If you lock me in the fuckin' closet," Ghoul hissed as he moved along the hallway with Poison, half using the wall for support and half his friend. He left the threat unfinished, knowing he would have made his point. And anyway, the end of it would have been ‘I’ll die in my sleep.’

The little shit was a fucking mind-reader sometimes. Ghoul would be pissed if he woke up and the others were gone... And then learned the others were _gone_... No, there was no space for worry. Once more, Party Poison completely avoided the knowledge that Fun Ghoul would be dead either way, laser gunfight or no.

 "Hey—keep an eye on the two weirdoes..." Despite all he'd heard, Ghoul was having trouble reminding himself they were _the_ Young Bloods. "Patrick doesn't look like he'd hold up in a firefight." The teen wanted so badly for his partner to stay with him but this team was more than the two of them. Perhaps in another life he'd have the guy all to himself. Poison nodded, trying to focus on the Young Bloods and not on how bad Ghoul looked.

"Yeah... Guy's a softie... Unless he goes demon or some shit..." He winced at the thought. They already had odds stacked against them. If the ginger did go dark side and tried killing from the inside, they were fucked, no questions asked. "Pete's pretty good though..." He grinned a bit. "BLI's gonna shit themselves when they realize who these assholes are..."

"They're our ace in the hole, man," Ghould borrowed an old phrase from a world long gone, a world in which they couldn't remember taking part, a world that would never be the same. He tucked some hair behind an ear as he hobbled on in and slid down the back wall. Sleep would clear up a lot, that much he _did_ know. As he pulled a ratty old blanket from its place against the wall and wrapped it around his body, he looked up at Poison.

"Seeya in a bit, babe."

Poison observed his partner, the sudden uncertainty of everything suddenly hitting him. He wanted to kiss Ghoul's forehead or something, just to show how he felt. He mentally slapped himself. There was no need. They'd carry on, just like they always did. There was no need for sentiment. Not yet. Instead, he helped spread the blanket and stood. Looking over his partner, all he could say was “Sleep tight, Ghoul…” with a smirk and closed the door.

~

 After discovering several sleeping bags rolled up around the place, Patrick and Pete had finally lain themselves down to rest. Lying down was a miracle to the exhausted men, a sanctuary of relative comfort. Snapping one sleeping bag open, Patrick decided to finally fill Pete in on his plans.

"We're going to use The Phoenix one more time," he told his friend, "here...in this messed-up future we created...it's more than just a song. You felt that, didn't you?"

"Totally, it’s like…" Pete mulled aloud, thinking about what he wanted to say. Between the energy from when he'd woken up to the song and the strange mood of D's words when he talked about the Phoenix as a person, He knew there was something special about that song; like it was resonating on a different plane, “she's got some kind of power here..."

He wasn't quite sure as to where the singer was going with this, but he would hear the ginger out first before he said anything. He sat down next to his partner, putting the blaster on the floor by him.

"They're going to go in, guns blazing—probably die," Patrick said, refusing to stop despite the grim statement, “but there's no doubt in my mind they'll get that Girl back," There was something about this place, again. He couldn't place it, “and the confusion will get us in," The plan was also a bit cold. Patrick hated himself for thinking this way but if they were going to save this world they had to let it die. "like, all the way in. We’re going...well we're gunna have to get in deep."

It almost surprised Pete how Patrick had such a dark plan. These guys were just kids. If this BLI was as big as they implied, they were going down, no questions asked. Pat was strong about it now, but somewhere in Pete's gut he knew that he'd have to pull Patrick along when the time came. He said nothing about it now, just nodding and thinking.

"Way deep, if we're gonna find that machine again," it was their only chance of getting back and fixing all of this.

"We don't have a choice," Patrick responded honestly. "We don’t...have a choice." His voice shook. He knew he wouldn't be able to make this alone—hell, they probably wouldn't make it together. But the Phoenix would save them. His heart continued to beat quickly as he lay down and curled up, trying hard not to think about what he was going to do.

Pete looked at the small singer, noticing just how small he himself felt. The chance they got this right was slim, but it was that chance they hung onto like a life preserver in a hurricane. He lay down next to Pat, wrapping his hands around his friend’s one good one, reminding the singer of his presence.

"We don't... but we can do it... The Phoenix is flying because of us, Pat...She's our weapon."

"Then don't let me screw up," Patrick warned, looking right into Pete's eyes. "Don't let this be our end—help me fix this."

“Yeah,” Pete squeezed Pat's hands gently again, "of course. I'm not going anywhere... I promised you. We're in this together.”

Fuck, He'd never thought he'd say those words. He'd always skittered on the edges of his and and ginger's relationship. Too afraid or whatever. But this was different. Patrick needed him. Maybe he'd always needed him and Pete just hadn't seen it. But he was here now.

"We're gonna end this thing…together."

"God, I hope so…now," the vocalist whispered, shuddering. He leaned his head forward and touched Pete's forehead with his own. He closed his eyes, "let's get some sleep."

It was going to get ugly, fast, especially with what he had planned so the vocalist was determined to be ready for it, whatever might end up going wrong.

"Sounds good, chief," Pete agreed. He was exhausted after having been stabbed and bandaged and shooting a laser gun. Sleep sounded nice. _Really_ nice. He moved his head a bit to plant a quick kiss on Patrick's forehead before he closed his eyes, waiting for any form of sleep to come over him. He'd normally say some kind of "good night" but something in his gut told him tonight wasn't going to be good for anyone.

In fact, there was hardly any sleep to be had, for Patrick at least. Even next to Pete, he couldn’t find rest. Not even in those strong, heavily tattooed arms, the place where he felt the safest. He just couldn’t sleep. Behind his eyelids were just islands of violence and gore, images he couldn’t digest.

Pete however, was enjoying not being awake. He was too far gone to feel Patrick move. Lord knew the poor bassist needed his rest. Patrick wasn’t going to wake the guy, so instead he quietly sneaked out of the kitchen. He needed to take his mind off things. Any distraction was welcome.

What he found was, predictably, a mostly-empty room, with a few booths holding some sleeping teenagers. He recognized the sleeping figure of Ray Toro, and that guy with the skates. Dr. D had been laid out on a mat and was snoring rather loudly in the corner. Everything was downright peaceful.

But it was just outside the doors that drew his attention. There was a flicker of light coming through the windows, followed by sounds of quiet talking. Maybe there was someone around he could talk with. Get rid of the ghosts lurking in his mind with some pleasant conversation. Perhaps about the impending suicide mission before them. Boy wasn’t he in a cheery mood today.

Moving outside into the chill desert night, he discovered the source of both light and noise. Mikey and Ger—er, Kobra and Poison were sitting on chairs from the diner around a small fire, their backs to Patrick, just chatting and joking. They were holding sticks and roasting something over the fire, like they were just chilling in someone’s backyard. It was frighteningly normal, as if Patrick was walking around backstage, and not outside of a diner in the middle of the vast wastelands of California.

“But dude, did you see his face though?” Kobra asked, glancing over at Poison. “I’ve never seen him so excited to frisk someone.” The two laughed a bit, their silhouettes rocking back and forth. “Oh, man… if we’d known… Nah, he’d probably be just as excited.”

Poison shook his head, still laughing a little. “If we’d known, we wouldn’t have been holding the guy at gun point…Fuck, I _still_ can’t believe it.” He flicked something into the fire and looked over at Kobra. “It’s crazy… Like everybody knows the stories—”

“No one better than you,” the younger brother said, gently pushing into his brother’s shoulder.

“You know what I fuckin’ mean,” Poison said. “Asshole,”

“Bitch.”

“’Zoid fucker.”

They dissolved into giggling, leaning into each other and gently punching the other’s shoulder. “Soooo,” Kobra said, “You gunna ask P Stump for a signature?”

“Dude, no,” Poison said, looking up so quick it almost gave him whiplash. He started shaking his head like he was trying to dry it off, “that’d be… so embarrassing.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Pat said finally stepping around and sitting next to the brothers with his casual smile. The two Killjoys froze. Kobra looked from Poison to Patrick, grinning. Poison was stuck looking at the ground. Thank goodness for the fading light, “you’d need to find me a pen, but I’d be willing…”

“Ah, no it’s,” Poison looked from Kobra to the fire and everywhere that wasn’t Patrick, “it’s cool—you don’t need to sign anything.” Poison was suddenly focusing intently on the roasting stick in his hands. “…Not like it’ll do me any good,” he joked, though the situation was far from humorous. Patrick wouldn’t need to sign anything, because Poison and the others would most likely be dead by the time the sun rose.

Well, that was pretty damn dismal. Patrick was about to say something in response when his flickering gaze finally landed on what the guys were roasting on the ends of their sticks. “Are… are those Twinkies?”

The two brothers looked at each other with the biggest fucking grins before dissolving into laughter. Patrick didn’t really get what was funny, but was hoping for an explanation once their giggle fest died down. Kobra eventually looked to Patrick and nodded.

“Yeah, Ghoul stole a bag on his last trip into the city,” he responded and gestured to a canvas bag at the brothers’ feet that held almost fifty of the golden logs, in tightly sealed plastic bags.

Patrick stared in disbelief. These desert-dwelling kids had no constant source of power, water, food, no real medical experts or resources, but heaven forbid the residents of this deranged, neon, post-apocalyptic universe live without Twinkies.

Kobra leaned over and held his stick out, offering the warm Twinkie on the end. “Here, try it.”

With his remaining hand, Pat held the thing gingerly, afraid to burn his finger tips at first. Once it cooled enough to take a bite, the Soul Punk sunk his teeth in. He was reminded of home, just for a brief blissful moment. Back when he had sideburns and wore trucker hats, sitting outside on warm Chicago days; wearing shorts, socks, and hats, laughing and teasing the other guys.

Back when things were good.

He opened his eyes to see the two brothers watching him with giant grins and trying not to laugh.

“Ah,” Pat began to back track a bit, realizing the nostalgia might’ve looked a bit odd. Not wanting these guys to think he was having an orgasm from a Twinkie, he just chuckled and said, “sorry, I just, uh… haven’t had one of these in a while.”

“Yeah,” Poison laughed, “we can tell.”

“Don’t worry, bro,” Kobra said, pulling the twinkie from the end of Poison’s stick and sticking it in his mouth and speaking with a mouth full of cream, “nethr ‘ave weh.”

The Young Blood raised the Twinkie in a “cheers” motion and finished it off, while Poison and Kobra just chatted a bit with each other.

“I should give one of these to Jet before we head out. He loves this kind of garbage.” Kobra Kid pulled one of the tight sealed yellow logs, looking at it like it held the answers to the universe. Poison just laughed a nodded.

“Shove it down his throat,” Poison mischievously offered, snapping his stick in half and throwing it into the fire, “right now, just go, while he’s still asleep.”

Looking back at the dinner, Kobra looked from the Twinkie in his hand to the door where somewhere behind, Jet star was sleeping with his giant fuckin’ headphones on. “I just might.” He elbowed Poison, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “Now, I guess I’ll let you two have a moment together.” He glanced over at Patrick, so ready to throw his brother under the bus. “He’s such a big fan, like, crazy big. He loves everything you’ve done. He knows all the words to every song, sings ‘em all the time.”

“Oh! My fucking Phoenix, Kid, shut your goddamn mouth,” Poison hissed, his face turning as bright as his hair.

“You cannot find a bigger P Stump fan in the Zones than this asshole,” Kobra found Poison’s anger hilarious, and was therefore egging it on while Poison hissed more threats. With a smirk, Kobra ignored him, got up, and grabbed his coat. “I’m gonna let you two take the watch. I’m beat.” With a wink, and Poison’s semi-quiet protest of “nonononono,” The blonde Killjoy turned and simply strutted back inside with a smirk to rival Ghoul’s.

“Shit,” Poison breathed to himself, looking back to the small singer, who was quite literally a living legend, and Poison’s idol. Kobra wasn’t wrong. But now it was just… weird. And no shortage of uncomfortable.

“So…” Patrick said, trying to start conversation, but he left it at that, following with odd facial expressions and some odd hand movements that only emphasized the obvious awkwardness of the situation.

“…I’m sorry you got stuck here…” Poison began, trying to push away from Poison the fanboy and more towards Poison the Leader. “I’m sure this isn’t what you guys were hoping for… Ya know… Kind of a shitty rebellion we’ve got goin’ here…”

 “I dunno,” Patrick said with a shrug “you’ve got a good team. They seem to be pretty decent guys … I think you’ll get her back.”

“We’re getting her back,” Poison snapped, finally looking meeting Patrick’s gaze, eyes filled with a fire the Young Blood had accidently struck alive. “She needs to be saved. She’s something special, don’t even pretend you know her…”

The suddenness of the situation caught Patrick off guard. He was honestly a bit frightened (only for about the twelfth time that day, but still) and it was that fear that made Poison ease up a bit, realizing he’d been a bit out of line there.

“She’s just… important…” He started poking at the fire with a stick. “Not just to us, but to this whole world… They need her.”  It was something he couldn’t explain just over a fire. With a sigh, he dropped the stick and leaned back in the chair. Daring to look at Patrick, Poison decided it was about time to set some things straight. “Kind of like you.”

“Like me?” Patrick began to sputter. Maybe this crazy world of lasers and BLI needed him, but they didn’t want him, Patrick, the whimpering singer with one hand, they wanted the him from Poison’s poster. They wanted a hero.

“Face it, Patrick,” Poison said, looking into the fire with dead eyes, “we’re gonna die.” After lying to Ghoul and D about how no one was going to die, that they could get through it, well… It really took a lot out of the redheaded teen. He had no reason to lie to Patrick. Not now. He was just too tired.

“Us Killjoys… We can’t back down from this, and were not gonna be walking away from it…” It was a suicide mission through and through. The scarlet haired boy was not about to deny that. “The people in this desert… they need something. Someone to root for… The death of the Young Bloods spurred them the first time around…” he shrugged, and made the most resigned bitter smile Patrick had ever seen. “Maybe we can do the same…”

“But we didn’t die,” Patrick said, though the twinge in his gut compelled him to continue. “Well… not all of us…”

“Exactly,” the redheaded Killjoy was building to something. Facing Patrick dead on, he spoke, voice low but clear. “Which is why… When we pull up to BLI… you don’t get out of that car… Not for one goddamn second do you think this is your fight here…” He shook his head, watching Patrick in the light of the fire. “You stay in that car and you live.” The Killjoys had had the Fab Four to root for so long. With a small smile Poison just looked to the sky and shook his head. “Just imagine how excited they’ll be… to see the Young Bloods again…”

It hurt Patrick that he was relieved to hear this. If he and Pete were gonna use the Phoenix, they were gonna have to stay in the car. They couldn’t help with their operation to save the girl. It was like Poison was giving him permission to betray them. It felt so wrong, and he felt so bad for lying. This kid, he barely looked like Gerard in this moment, was just a teenager. This guy was so contented with his death…  The melancholy expression and pained smile… In the light of that fire, Patrick decided there was almost nothing sadder than the face of a man who was awaiting his death.

“Go back to sleep, Patrick,” Poison said finally, after a few minutes of pregnant silence between them. “You’ve got about an hour before I start waking everyone up. I suggest you take it.”

“Why?” Pat asked, leaning back in his chair a bit. “Have you slept at all?”

Poison cracked a small toothy grin, possibly one of the saddest smiles Patrick had ever seen. “Don’t worry. I’ll get plenty of sleep when I’m dead.” Wasn’t that such a Ghoul sort of thing for him to say? Damn bastard was rubbing off on him. “…Get some rest… Be with your friend… He’s the best thing you have in this world, I guarantee you that.”

“Same goes for you,” Pat said. Nothing got between the boys in My Chem. Even in an alternate universe, Gerard was still Gerard, even if he didn’t know it. Nothing would break his loyalties with his four brothers. “…See ya, …Poison…”

“Sweet dreams, Young Blood,” The colorful teen said, not daring to look at the older man until he was on his way back inside. He felt sorry for the poor bastard. What a shitty world he’d entered. What a fucked up place. “Sweet dreams,” he muttered again, mostly to himself, poking at the fire and watching the smoke circle and rise up into the sky and disappear. “So long and goodnight…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new years friends!! I hope it's a great one for all of you lovely lovely people!! You're all amazing and wonderful!! Hook and I are still talking about Livechat stuff, so tell us if you wanna do that sometime. Other than that, I just wish you guys a great year, and we love you so much!!! ~Duchess


	11. A Little Less Sixteen Candles; A Little More Touch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stage is set, the die has been cast. Will it come up lucky for the good guys, or will the music munchers have their way with the world and silence sound forever? Does little bitty P-Stump have the cajones to go through with his mysterious, gut-twisting plan? The wasteland rumbles onward for miles, long enough for the Young Bloods to really think about this crazy thing they're going to do... The consequences for the world are dire if they fail, but could those awaiting them should they succeed be even worse? Patrick and Pete have a heart-to-heart with dear old Dr. Death Defying and hearts are laid bare...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of random characters appear in this chapter, you might recognize them if you're at all familiar with either writer of the story. As OC's go, their involvement is minimal and does not affect the story, so please read on, dear ones. 
> 
> [special thanks to tumblr user MCRdeviantclub for their contributions]

_"I'm just off, a lost cause, long shot; don't even take this bet."_

~

Party Poison, true to his word, awakened everyone a few hours after they'd all crashed. He, of course, got no sleep. The redhead prayed someone in the place had done so, however, because if they were all exhausted, their mission was a guaranteed failure. He moved about the place on cat's paws, silent, gently pulling his squad out of slumber land. With each motion, the regret and guilt built up in the back of the teen's mind. Knowing what he was asking them to do killed him a little with each set of eyes blearily opening to greet him.

Jet rose from his place quicker than anyone else, dashing out to fine-tune his baby before they all piled their asses in and took off for what he was sure would be a suicide mission. He busied himself making sure everything was in perfect order, that they were stocked for an emergency and armed to the teeth.

Kobra Kid was shortly to follow, trailing Jet Star with an odd vigor and almost too much enthusiasm. They both worked feverishly, checking every inch of their cargo and the vehicle itself, just to be certain. They both knew the risks. There was a zero percent chance they'd be coming back, but, like any teenager staying up past three in the morning, they caught their second wind and rode it like enthusiastic surfers.

Kid elbowed Jet at one point, pulling a small, rectangular piece of paper out of one pocket. He handed it to his eyepatch-clad friend, who focused on the faded image thereupon. It was an image of the Girl. He placed it on the dash, right where their fearless leader would see it. He'd need it; they all would.

Poison awoke Pete and Patrick next, finding them curled together, arms and legs entangled. He recognized the pose, had performed that tango many times before. They'd obviously made some kind of love in the precious hours everyone had left, and for this, Paarty Poison admired them. Had Ghoul been in any state to do so, that's exactly what they would have been doing, as well.

But he wasn't, was he?

Ghoul was dying, wasn't he?

But in the end, weren't they all?

The flame-haired leader of the Fab Four shook off the preemptive grief and stooped to touch Pete's shoulder first. Of the two of them, he was perceived as the lesser threat, what with the unknown status of Patrick's...possession? It hadn't cropped up once they were out of danger and pain, and music didn't seem to trigger it anymore, either. The variables were what kept Pete between Party Poison and a very much asleep Patrick Stump.

Pete stirred, groaning. He brought one fist up to rub at his eyes. Sleep would have done him some good, what with being punctured, and all—but how much good was up for debate. The bassist groaned a second time, louder, and sounding more like words...sort of like:

“Already?”

“Yeah, we've got an hour or so before launch, but I wanted to make sure you cats were golden for takeoff,” his voice was low, he spoke so kindly, he was leading them to their deaths.

“I'm up,” Patrick hissed from Pete's other side, not even attempting to remove himself from the entanglement of Pete's summery flesh. His friend chuckled, shrugging helplessly in Poison's direction, but the legendary zone runner was already gone.

“You good to go, though?” Pete's question disregarded entirely Patrick's ability to stand or move about, but rather his willingness to go through with his crazy plan.

“I have to be,” the vocalist responded hoarsely, “because we don't have a choice.”

The resignation in his voice was tempered with steel, something that had only arisen recently, but that Pete appreciated greatly. He'd always worked so hard to protect Patrick in the guy's younger years. He was so shy, trying to be bold and “cool,” but ultimately, just being humble and relatively quiet.

The impropriety and terrible language had always stemmed from his previous inability to fit in anywhere else. His true nature had been ultimately revealed when the band took a break. Going solo had done something to Patrick. Being sent here had done something else. Both of those instances seemed to have only recently combined to form the legendary Young Blood with which everyone around here seemed to be so obsessed.

Pete lay there a while longer, enveloping Patrick in his heavily tattooed arms, unwillling to let go, as if doing so would set in motion a chain of events that would forever scar them both and from which neither had any hope of recovering. His subconscious was not, as it would turn out, too far from the truth. Funny how things worked that way.

Patrick was actually the first to sit up, though a wild head rush kept him from standing for a few more minutes. He gripped his forehead and moaned, knowing that what little sleep they'd acquired had not been nearly enough. His brain felt three sizes too big and his heart made of stone. It was leaden in his chest, beating too hard, but otherwise inanimate, heavy.

Pete reached up and ineffectually swatted at his shoulder. It was something of a gesture of solidarity, but came from a man who could have used about twenty more hours of sleep. Patrick glanced down and back, offering a smile they both knew was fake.

It was beautiful, but it was fake.

Slowly, Pete forced himself upward. Patrick shifted around on their sleeping bag pile, redistributing his weight so he could aid the emo king. Despite his injury and lack of sleep, the bassist managed to get himself upright with little more than the same sort of head rush from which Patrick had earlier suffered. He shook it off quickly and reached over one shoulder to touch the area where he'd been wounded.

“Don't mess with it,” warned Patrick, knowingly. Something like that wouldn't do well to be fiddled with, despite its expert-level wrapping and sterilization. Pete grunted in response, putting his hand down, settling it into his lap. It was kind of itchy, which was odd, but probably meant healing...or fatal disease.

“We're going home,” Pete said suddenly, “to fix this, and...make sure it never happens, but...”

“But what?” Patrick interjected. “What if it means they never exist in this way? What if that fucks them up? Do you remember how they all were recording this album? They already _were_...we can't change that.”

Neither of them were time travel experts, or any kind of physicist that might know a damn thing about alternate timelines or parallel universes, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what this universe had done to the men of My Chemical Romance.

“So you think what's happening here, in the future...in 2019 affected them back in 2010?” Pete was following, but a bit slowly. As he had been out or bleeding or in pain for much of the past few days, this was not surprising, and Patrick Stump was a man of almost infinite patience.

“Look at how young they are,” Patrick spoke slowly, allowing Pete to process everything, “emaciated, just like the album—totally messed up, but this time it's because of desert living, not...”

He trailed off, didn't want to bring up anything unnecessarily ugly. No one in My Chem was doing very well during the Danger Days era. It wouldn't help to bring this fact up, because thoughts would inevitably float to Mikey Way, Pete's old fling—now Kobra Kid, packing the Welcome Wagon.

“So your'e saying, what? Their behavior, their bodies...mirrored in the past what they'd have been going through at that age if they were these dweebs in a fucking nuclear wasteland of a desert?” Pete was piecing this together better and more completely than Patrick could have hoped. Evidently, he wasn't as out of it as the little sun-burnt ginger thought.

“You're gathering this a whole lot faster than I thought you would,” Patrick complimented.

“I'm not an idiot, 'Trick—and I heard you mumbling to yourself earlier....while _you_ were piecing it together,” Pete added this last bit sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

“Well, I mean...I've had a little time to think, y'know...instead of sleep,” Patrick was blushing but Pete couldn't tell, because of the permanent red that had become his face.

“So,” Pete tried his best to wrap up the hypothesis his friend was having, “the guys are tossed into the future, but something fucks up—Dr. D told us that much—and makes them teenagers, but when they actually _are_ that age, y'know...in real life...they've just got minds full of two realities, which, inevitably messes with them, but also brings them together as My Chemical Romance.”

Patrick nodded, “yeah.”

“And it takes them almost ten years of being that band to realize it and make it into an album, which is cathartic, but really fucking damaging,” Pete continued, “in fact, it almost kills them, or ruins friendships—or whatever.”

“Yeah,” again, Patrick was forced to nod and listen, wide-eyed as Pete summed up what he'd been jumbling around for hours.

“So what happens to us?”  
The silence that hung in the air between them was positively thick. Patrick swallowed, licked his lips, gaze darting around. He was searching for any kind of answer that didn't end in debilitating PTSD or worse. The vocalist could come up with nothing. He didn't know if they would even make it back through the portal—which he also didn't know for sure was in the deepest bowels of the BLI headquarters—alive or sane.

Party Poison poked his head in a few moments later, making something of a fog horn noise—inexplicably—with his mouth to get their attention.

“Saddle up, kiddies, we're headed out!”

Pete gave him a look that could have shot lasers, but mini-Gerard was already gone.

“I could smack him,” Pete groaned. He was nursing a pretty nasty headache as it was, but the shouting did not help.

“Easy, Pete,” warned Patrick, working himself to his feet and offering a hand. The tattooed bassist took the aid with his good arm, keeping the other tucked close to his chest. The sharp pain from earlier had subsided into a dull ache. This, he could handle, if it meant he'd be able to protect Patrick.

When the dark-haired man was on his feet, he ventured a stretch, both arms skyward—one higher than the other, but it was still a good stretch. The movement made Patrick smile. Pete liked that smile, leaning in to catch it with his own lips, wrapping a hand around the back of Patrick's neck to hold him there.

“I love you,” he mumbled into the redhead's mouth, kissing him over and over and over. They both knew they should be moving, and likely someone would walk in on them, but it was a desert, full of death and all sorts of wasteland pleasantries, so catching a couple kissing would probably have been a favor.

“Thanks, Pete,” responded the redhead weakly, “and I love you too.”

“Once more, with feeling,” Pete coaxed, goosing his partner gently. Patrick squeaked and swatted at him, grabbing his jacket on their way out. It was good to smile again, to even laugh a little in the face of such terrible odds.

“I _do_ love you,” Patrick responded, peeping over his shoulder, pink lips curled into a half grin. They entered the diner's main eatery area. Everyone was packed up, and there were a few more people to add to the count of “everyone.”

“This here's Danger Duchess,” the old man gestured to a short blonde gal with blue-tips on her long, wavy hair, “and her wife, Zebra Kilo,” his hand waved in a wide arc, indicating a black woman who was about six-and-a-half feet tall; her vitiglio painted dark flesh into a brilliant canvas. Patrick recognized the tattoo on the left side of her neck and the “Young Blood” logo on her jacket.

“Show Pony you cats already know, and then our driver,

“We're not comin' with you fellas, much as we wanna,” the one called Kilo said, striding toward and towering over both Pete and Patrick. “Basically, we'll be here, fortifying this dump until y'all get back with the sweet little Gal.”

“Looking forward to ghosting me some Dracs,” Duchess chuckled, her voice low, dangerous—just like her name. She exchanged a look with her towering wife, who chuckled, “but don't be stupid and lead 'em back if you can avoid it.”

Kilo chuckled over her shoulder at the other woman and backed out of the Young Bloods' way, setting about her task of fortifying the diner. Patrols never came out this far on their own, but if the Fabulous Four made off with something the BLI wanted, you could bet there'd be Draculoids about.

“Cherri goin' with you?” Patrick heard Duchess ask Dr. Death Defying in a low voice, as if the sentence were sacred, or perhaps out of turn. Dark blue eyes darted about as she spoke, to make sure no one was listening or that she was not overstepping her bounds. The old fellow shook his head.

“Not this time, Battle Babe,” his tone was different for just a moment, a little washed-out, even. Who was Cherri and why weren't they going to attend the other Killjoys' base-crashing suicide mission?

“Hear that, 'Trick?” Pete hissed.

“Yeah,” Patrick responded, “but I don't know who that even is; did we miss someone?”  
The Fab Four were so loudly outfitted, it would have been impossible to confuse any of them, much less _miss_ one. Yet here they sat, wondering if Four was just a name or that zone runners had forgotten how to count, inexplicably. Perhaps Dr. D could shed some light on the subject.

He must have sensed this, because the moment Danger Duchess scooted off to assist Zebra Kilo, Dr. Death Defying turned his wheelchair toward the Young Bloods. Patrick took a deep breath and, for whatever reason, readied himself for chastisement.

“I expect you heard a bit of that banter there, boys, so I'll make it quick since we haven't got much time,” intoned Dr. D's sonorous voice. “Cherri Cola is a friend of the Fab Four's, though not an 'official' member, given the name and the number difference, you dig?”

Pete and Patrick both nodded, sparing each other glances to check the other's comprehension and to see if either one had decoded something in Dr. D's speech. The guy was a natural poet, one of those kinds of people who only spoke in metaphor and very rarely gave their whole meaning the first time through.

“So who _is_ he?” Pete pressed, curiosity getting the better of him. Patrick elbowed him, sensing the subject was sore in some aspect.

“You've got my word that I'll be tellin' you cats everything, start to finish, on the way,” said the good doctor, about-facing his wheelchair, “patience, my friends.”

“The mentor figure in the movies always says that before revealing some big secret,” Pete observed, “so my money's on getting the whole fuckin' scoop, this time.”

The ginger sure hoped his friend was right. All these secrets, mystery and conjecture were starting to wear on him. Patrick had developed a pretty effective understanding of the physics and dynamics of this strange, ugly future in only the short time they'd been here. Of course, there were still more than a few questions in his cute little head and a very short time available to answer them.

Presently, everything was loaded into the two-vehicle caravan they'd be driving into the heart of Better Living Industries. From what the Young Bloods had gathered, the complex would be at the center of Battery City, and heavily guarded. For some reason, Patrick had no trouble believing they'd get in, but also knew with absolute certainty that none of them would be walking out. That was just fine, because their destination was not 2019 at all.

There were plenty of factors for which Patrick hadn’t planned, due to lack of knowledge, of course...but his innate instincts had shifted almost completely since being dumped onto the hot California wasteland sand. He had no idea how to change the settings on the portal that neither Young Blood was certain existed; the singer couldn't even begin to guess how his song would affect those within hearing distance, or if it would at all. But somewhere, deep in the recesses of his soul, a seed had been planted. He knew now he had the power to change this wretched place, _they_ had the power.

Nothing would stop them.

The battered Young Bloods and the suddenly present Show Pony helped Dr. Death Defying into the wheelchair with the help of DJ Hot Chimp, who was ready and raring to go. She skittered around the front of the vehicle and vaulted in, throwing Party Poison a thumbs up. He, in turn, spared one last glance toward Patrick, who nodded with some solemnity. For a second, the miniscule singer thought perhaps the teen understood what was about to happen, really comprehended it and felt momentary despair. The look dissipated as soon as it had arisen, however as Poison slid into his seat.

The picture of the Girl on his dash brought new, grim determination to his handsome, grubby, young face. He craned his neck to watch Jet and Ghoul climb in back. No one exchanged a word. Kobra Kid was last to enter. With the slam of his door, both engines started up. Pete and Patrick piled into the back of the van and slammed the doors, and the miniature caravan was off.

Minutes passed with little noise other than the coughing banter of the van's innards and the rattling of weapons and battery packs in crates stored around, and in Patrick's case, under the occupants. Finally, Pete spoke up:

“You said you'd fill us in, old-timer,” he didn't know why he used the phrase 'old-timer,' but it had seemed appropriate, “so spill. You know what's about to happen, so it's not like we can tell anyone else.”

The old fellow took a breath and pulled at his beard, formulating how best to begin his yarn. Rattling along the old desert road, he'd have to speak up to be heard, but that was no problem at all for the old DJ, and these boys needed the truth, and all of it, fast.

“You remember what I told you about our Fabulous Four Fanatics, well there's more to it than just that,” he began. “they came one day, bruised and broken, and _he_ was the one who saved 'em, got help...brought 'em to me.”

“You mean Cherri—”

“Cola, yeah, Cherri Cola's kinda the phantom Fab Four frat brother you fellas have yet to meet..and probably won't,” the old man's gravelly voice bubbled up from a well of emotion. He had such a strong connection to all of these boys, it was no wonder. Having one missing from the group had to have been hard, but also, perhaps a relief?

“Why's everyone so hush-hush about him, then?” Pete asked, becoming perturbed with the constant metaphors and what he saw as evasion. Show Pony's expressionless helmet visor turned on Pete quickly, silently chastising him for forcing even that little bit out of the doctor.

“The wound's pretty fresh, but I'd say it's his refusal to join Poison and his boys that irked them into that ugly silence you saw just now, not necessarily the death trap we're all drivin' into,” surmised the doctor. His phraseology intimated that he, too was not entirely certain about it, but rumor flew fast among the killjoys.

“Surely Party Poison spoke to _you_ ,” Patrick blanched, imagining Dr. Death Defying to be everyone's uncle-like confidant. The doctor shook his head and raised his palms skyward.

“Boy's the best shooter in the bunch and he up and refused, is all I can figure,” he rumbled, “and I can guess why, too.”

At this point, both Young Bloods were leaning forward, eager for the answer. Dr. Death Defying considered a moment how best to phrase this next bit as well. He was a wordsmith, but he was also old and traveling at high, bumpy speeds down a hardly-maintained wasteland road.

“He's always been a peaceful bugger, that Cherri Cola, regretting the kills even when they were clean and justified...he's got a gentle spirit, you see. He wanted to heal, not to kill, but he never got the hang of blood, y'know? Never really latched onto that fancy medical jargon and wound assessment the way the little fella, Ghoul, did...bet you cats didn't see _that_ one coming.”

Both Pete and Patrick had to admit that no, they had not predicted the miniaturized—if that was possible—version of Frank Iero riding in an old Trans Am with the rest of teen-My Chem was a closet medic.

“So he asked me one day if he could learn to soothe the soul, you dig? He wanted to be a DJ—and he had a good mind for it, for the words, y'know, the flow and the rhythm...Desert Poet some 'runners call him,” this brought a smile to the old guy's face and a nostalgic sigh. “I saw a lot of myself in him, so naturally, I encouraged it. That didn't bother the boys, y'know? Everyone out here appreciates art more than you could know. Poison never thought it would stop him helping them, though...I think that dug deepest of all.”

“So they're treating him like a deserter,” Pete surmised, shaking his head, brows knit, “which is kind of cold.”

“Life out here's harsh, o' tattooed bandito,” the old fellow responded, a dusty chuckle tumbling out between chapped lips.

“I wish I could've met him,” Patrick lamented quietly, under his breath. Of course, both men heard him, but neither commented for a long moment, simply feeling the red wastes roll and rattled underneath their planted bottoms.

“You'd have liked Cherri Cola,” said Dr. Death Defying eventually, “I think you two might have made groovy combo, if you decidede to take up the lonely life of a DJ; the Desert Poet and the voice of the Young Bloods...”

Dr. D almost seemed sad not to have experienced this, but they all knew what a fatal mistake that would have been. That was not to say what they were now doing was at all safe or advisable, of course, but the other way lacked purpose or a goal. It was nebulous and not why Patrick and Pete had been thrown into this world.

“He's already got someone to write the words, Steve,” Pete interjected, voice low. He rolled his shoulder in its socket, wincing at the pain, but bearing it. The tattooed bassist watched the good doctor's adam's apple bob up and down several times as he swallowed whatever emotion was bubbling up from within his old heart.

“I know he does, little chili pepper, I know...” Dr. Death Defying's voice was spent, and he collapsed into silence soon after. Pete couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw tears breach the impassible black of the wheelchair-bound DJ's shades.

Patrick remained stunned in silence for a good thirty seconds before the gears in his head started turning and he recognized Steve Montano for who he really was. The guy was older, grizzled, downright mangled, but it was him. Who better to care for younger incarnations of My Chemical Romance than MSI's guitarist?

“Thanks, man,” Patrick mumbled, reaching out to lay his hand on top of Dr. D's. The old soldier, the desert uncle, the watchdog of the Fab Four, the wordsmith of the sands...had no words. Not one.

“Comin' up on Bat' City, fellas,” Hot Chimp called over one shoulder. She had a blaster ready and raring to go in the seat next to her. Pete stooped to ready two for himself and his companion. Dr. D sat passively, hands in his lap, watching them.

“Their guard has gone lax, or maybe the fat cats up top are sick of payin' everyone's wages down below,” Dr. Death Defying observed, craning his neck around to peer out the front window of the van. The single 'Crow at the toll booth-style entrance to Bat' city was dead asleep until the 'Wagon roared through. Shortly after, he—and his two companions—were up and about and panicking, setting off alarms and scrambling for weapons they were too late to use.

Pete punched the air silently as they passed the threshold of the city. Patrick's eyes joined Dr. D's out the windows, watching the guard station go by. A strange silhouette flashed by in the glass, illuminated only by stark, white, flood lights. It was not the shape of a cargo van, at all. The ginger blinked several times and rubbed his eyes. It was probably his lack of eye-wear that was doing this to him...or lack of sleep, maybe?

Gray walls and nearly barren streets rushed by in the darkness. A steady drizzle had begun to fall almost immediately after they entered the city wall limits. It was unnerving how very much control BLI had over this place.

“Curfew?” Pete asked, attempting to keep chatter to a minimum, but curious nonetheless. Dr. Death Defying nodded.

“These folks are controlled in every way possible, from cradle to grave, they never breathe free...”

They passed a building with a particularly bright street lamp nearby—sure to be replaced or repaired come morning—and the reflection of the van was, in Patrick’s peripheral, once more accompanied and almost eclipsed by a dark, wispy figure. It was large, clearly not human and was racing along next to them the entire length of the building. He choked a moment and tried to point it out, but the instant he did, his vision vanished.

The ginger determined that, while he was probably losing his mind, whatever this thing was he kept seeing was too consistent in appearance to be part of that. Each time they passed a building close enough to see a reflection, he glimpsed whatever it was. As they turned, their path forking from the Welcome Wagon, Patrick began to see the floating, now-feathery figure in more than just reflections.

It was a mist through the rain, an errant shadow. What it _was_ had become no more clear to him than the first time he'd witnessed it, but something about the amorphous shade brought him comfort. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and thought hard on his plan. The Phoenix would have to save them; they had no other choice. They'd all felt the power of the song when he had performed it to prove his identity.

Upon opening his eyes, he found a pleasant, if muffling silence filling the space around his body. He was no longer in the van—or he was, but it was not like the van in which he'd ridden from the diner. It was empty, devoid of anyone but himself and the figure that had been shadowing him since they entered the city.

“We're not moving,” were the first words out of Patrick's mouth. The sound echoed and seemed to add music to the otherwise silent place, a pleasant white noise it craved and drank up as a dehydrated man might have downed a glass of ice water.

“We're not in Battery City for now,” responded the figure, raising its head. It stared at the Young Blood with a masked face. How he knew it was watching him was a mystery, but he knew.

“Who are you, then? You've been following us since we hit the city limits.”

“No,” it responded, the voice neither male nor female, “just you.”

The ginger took a moment or two to realize it was correcting the second half of his statement, rather than answering his question. That led him to believe he was perhaps not asking the right question. Or maybe he shouldn't have had to ask at all. Maybe he knew who this was—what it was and simply had to grasp the fact. They clearly were not within the bounds of time and space, so his brain was also not bound by those laws.

“You're the Phoenix witch everyone worships out there in the desert,” Patrick said finally, “but if that's the case,” and he knew it was, “why did you only show up in here.”

“Where faith is thickest, I don't need to be seen,” they responded, “but where there is none, I have chosen to make myself known—and I am now able to do so because of you...you and your song. My song. Our song.”

“But if you were already here, why did you need me?”

“You created me with The Phoenix,” responded the being, stretching out one wrapped leg toward Patrick, “not yesterday, but years ago, in the past.”

“That past never happened,” Patrick responded, scared out of his wits that he might be right, “I killed my friends and made sure it never happened.”

“And what are you going to do now, right now...where we now sit? Where is this van headed?”

“To return,” the vocalist's voice was barely above a whisper, but in this place of stillness, it rang out like a gong. If what the Phoenix witch was saying ended up true, then they really were headed in the right direction and his hairbrained, heatstroke-induced scheme was a valid, workable plan.

“At great cost,” said the witch.

Sound and color, movement and light, regularity and rhythm returned to the world around Patrick as Pete shook him awake.

“It's go-time, bro,” said the exhausted bassist, snapping a battery pack into one of the blasters and offering it to Patrick. The ginger shook his head and held up a hand.

“Save it; you know I can't shoot...”

“This'll be the last time I see you boys,” said the old doctor, “so I'm gunna wish you as much luck as the Phoenix witch is willing to give.”

“That's all we'll need,” said the smallest, bravest Young Blood.

“Better Living, here we come,” snarled Pete, shouldering the van's back doors open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...you thought we were gunna lead y'all to the climax this chapter? Pfft, not a chance. Hold on another month, lovelies.


	12. The Kids From Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sing it for the world, Killjoys.

_"Well, now this might be the last of all the rides we take. So hold on tight and don’t look back…”_

~

Meanwhile, in the wagon, much less chatter was happening.  Silence was all that could be said, and even that was almost too much. The only sounds available was the humming of the engine as it roared down the rugged roads of the desert. Poison navigated the Wagon, turning down one of the last entrance tunnels into the city. They startled a Drac at the station, and the scarecrow guard began shooting at them. Within the car, silence echoed, a cacophony of nothing. None of them even looked at each other. Poison’s glance only fell to look at the picture of the Girl, their Girl.

The Trans Am roared through the barrier, breaking it like it was nothing, which it was to them in this moment. The violence ahead was almost palpable, different but similar in each boy’s imagination. Even so, they were deadpan. None of them blinked an eye, not even when the alarms started to go off around them. Even when they ran out of road and all climbed out, they were completely unafraid. Fear had been stripped away, torn from them like a useless bandaid.

No, they weren't afraid. Just angry.

Dr. D’s van had pulled away from behind them, awaiting its time of necessity. A silent prayer went up from all four boys, as if sheer force of will could get her out. Praying that Dr. D and DJ Hot Chimp and Show Pony could make it and take the Girl with them.  If anyone could get out and be safe it needed to be them.

They began to cross the bridge and approached the very goddamn front entrance of the accursed place, each hapless member of the Fab Four bearing a stone-cold face, eyes narrowed, mouths set in thin lines. A sour rain came down on their heads as they marched, as if mimicking their severity. It wasn't the sort of natural, refreshing deluge the boys experienced in the desert on occasion, but a manufactured phenomenon courtesy of BLI's technology. The threshold of their enemy was fast approaching. And each boy approached it with grim determination. The doors were thrown wide as a few dracs came out to the Fabulous Four. The Killjoys took the opportunity with twisted pleasure.

Ruthless, the Killjoys shot every damn Drac on sight, as the downpour fell around them. They stormed through the front doors, stopping for no one, not blinking an eye as they were fired upon. They mimicked the absent thunder with their return fire. This was war and the Killjoys were unafraid to fight, unafraid to die.

Poison led the troop through the dimly lit halls, the only light source being the flashing alarms, signifying their arrival to everyone in the building. Kobra followed close behind him, staying very near his brother. They marched around the corners, nailing everything in their way with an almost careless shot from their blasters. They were powerful and strong. Sworn to protect, born to kill. Anyone between them and the Girl was already dead.

The poor bastards just didn't realize it.

And so, those in that small control room followed the pattern, hitting the floor with only a choked scream from some, and wordless, masked defeat for others. There, near a glittering console, was their baby, eyes alive with her tiny fire as she smiled. She dropped the ball she’d been given and ran towards them, her tiny arms outstretched to those four neon-clad boys by whom she’d been raised.

While Kobra and Jet stood guard outside the glass monitoring station, Ghoul took out the last of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W agents inside. Poison went right to his knees and grabbed his Girl, pulling her into his arms. Fuck, he'd missed her. She was more than just their only hope. She was their girl. She burrowed her small face into his shoulder like she'd done countless times before. No words were said. They didn't need to be. Their hug passed the feelings to each other. She was scared.

So was he, he realized as a loud siren began to wail. They were waking up all the 'crows. All of them. The other boys looked at each other, each knowing what this meant. They had to get out, fast. It would be four against a thousand if they didn't. Party Poison was afraid of losing. He was afraid of failing her again. He was afraid of letting every 'runner down, not to mention his three closest friends--no, his brothers. He was afraid to die before he'd finished what he'd started.

The Girl squeezed her grip around him then, as if knowing his fears. She was so strong for being so little. A tiny warrior with the fierceness of a thousand lions. She was the bravest of all of them, and seemed to be unharmed. For that everyone was grateful.

The flame-haired teen let go, leaning back and giving her a small smile.

"Let's go home," he said.

She smiled, moving to accept the small affections from the other three Killjoys, all so happy to have their Girl back. But they didn’t have much time for such a love fest and soon the five of them were on the move again, now with the Girl fronting their pack.

They moved down the halls quickly, following the path set for them by their tiny charge. Poison followed her and the rest followed him. Solid determination kept them moving, even as they could hear their enemies in the walls, coming for them. Silent panic was all anyone could afford--it was all anyone could ever afford. Showing emotions other than cold rage would be foolish

They reached the dark, open lobby as their enemy converged upon them. The doors on all sides of the Fab Four and Girl were opening and spilling out Draculoids and well-trained S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's.

And Korse was at the front of their party.

The Girl ducked and the Killjoys all turned as one, protecting her with a wall of blasts, Ghoul even dropping to one knee to steady his aim as they fired back down the hall. His head was pounding and he could taste more than a little copper on his tongue. Vision blurring, he took aim nevertheless, squeezing the trigger with savage intent. The Killjoys split to cover ground as they had in the desert. Only this time their Girl had nowhere to run. They just had to trust her to stay low.

As Poison and Kobra went back to back, protecting each other a second nature to them. Jet stayed close to the Girl, protecting her like a crazed mother bear with an eye patch. No one was going to hurt his baby. Not while he was still on his feet. Ghoul fired as much as he could before he slammed his back into a pillar to take a couple deep breaths to stave off the dizziness and pain. There’s no time to rest in a firefight, he reminded himself. And so promptly, he whipped around to take out as many BLI zombies as possible.

The Killjoys fired, blasting every masked, white face that charged. Poison turned, staying back to back with Kobra, firing at every Drac and 'Crow they saw, turning with each other like a well oiled machine. He only parted from his brother when he realized there were too many, hoping to cover more ground. Dracs fell like flies, their own blasts constantly missing their marks.

He looked over and caught a Drac poised to shoot at an unsuspecting Kobra. Poison put his gun to the back of the Drac's head, but rather than waste a shot, he grabbed the mask and pulled it off. But when he saw the person under the mask, he suddenly felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

Party Poison knew this Drac. He was terrible with names, but never forgot a face. This was a Killjoy he'd met years before, just a punk hanging around, wanting to meet the infamous ‘Fab Four.’ This kid had a life. Friends. A future. He'd come up to Poison asking all about the Killjoys, calling Poison his hero.

_His Hero._

Poison's gut caught in his throat.

Some hero…

He stepped back, in a daze, horror crawling out of the mask still in his hands and up Poison’s arms, settling in the front of his brain. He fired two more shots out of instinct.

His mind was gone. Poison had been this kid’s hero. And he'd gotten Drac'd. And now killed, by Poison himself.

They were _kids. People._ Humans.

Poison fired again, again, out of instinct more than anything. He'd already failed. He'd tried to change the world, but he couldn't. He never could have. His mind was gone. He fired, but he couldn't focus.

He was so lost, he didn't see Korse come up behind him until the towering behemoth of a man was already there, grabbing Poison by his shoulder and pressing him against the wall. The once-glorious leader of the Fabulous Four didn’t see Kobra yell in horror and panic and start fight his way toward their position, afraid for his brother. He didn’t see anything but the man in front of him, which told him all he needed to know.

He'd already failed.

He’d already lost.

The elegantly dressed man smiled at him, cocking his head with that sick, twisted smile Poison saw so vividly in his nightmares. Normally it was a sour sight that inspired horror, waking him up from a with a scream from the dark abyss of fear, sweating and heart racing. But not now. There was no fear. He’d conceded himself to his death what seemed like long ago. There was no hope for him, and that he knew. So Party Poison steeled himself, set his jaw, and just looked into those hollow brown eyes that had once haunted him.

There was something frighteningly calm about looking into the eyes of death and feeling absolutely nothing.

Korse's weapon went off.

The Girl screamed, the only sound to be heard in the firefight of blasts and showering sparks—in a sea of silent noise it was the one note that pierced the heart of everyone with a soul left alive in the room. It was startling to some, but a reminder to the Killjoys. They had a Girl to protect.

Jet leaped into action, firing through the crowds to get to the Girl, while Kobra charged at the frocked exterminator like a mad bull, full of rage and anger, screaming for his brother, knowing it might be the last thing he ever did. Korse, now looming over Poison’s body, was startled back into action, firing upon the blond teen. Of course, Kobra fired back, revenge fueling him like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, but his rage blinded him to the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/s poised and ready to take the open shot.

He collapsed without a sound, arm outstretched toward his brother, the red blaster still in his gloved hand.

Jet ran, even as Kobra fell, placing a big hand on the Girl’s back, guiding her toward the door as fast as he could. Ghoul fell in with him, not even realizing what had happened. Neither of them could stop, just hurrying their charge out and away. All Ghoul saw was that blessed escape and his friend and the Girl in front of him. His vision was tunneling, hard.

There was Dr. D’s van, ready to take the little girl to safety. Even the sun had risen to bestow its blessing on this rag tag escape plan. The light at the end of the tunnel. It would’ve been almost funny if any of them could take the time to stop and think about it. But with a thousand Dracs behind them, there was no stopping and there was no thinking.

Ghoul took up the rear to Jet and the Girl, but upon realizing they'd not make it without cover, he knew he could not follow. Instead, he whipped around after tugging the door shut, against the wishes of hydraulic hinges. He fired again, methodically, coldly. His body alternated between an inferno and a fucking icebox, and then numbness.

The Girl stopped when she saw, screaming for Fun Ghoul. Shrieking for him to come. For now she could only watch—and even then for a very brief time. Through the glass walls, she saw three of the four neon parents she’d grown with, trapped and surrounded, or dead. She would not shed a tear, though, not when she had to run. Once Jet pulled her along, there was no more time to look back.

For if she did look back she’d have seen.

Ghoul was one man against hundreds. The son of a bitch was one tough mother, and he was not going down, not yet. Poison’s words from the night before rang true. For a moment he felt almost… hopeful.

And then his eye caught two red somethings... Things on the floor where it should not have been.

That second of lost concentration was all it took and a searing agony ripped through his body. The probability of the 'Crows landing a shot proved to be not in Ghoul’s favor, taking a hit to his chest. They showed no mercy and gunned the ebony-haired Killjoy down with a final shot to his shoulder.

 "No more pissin' blood..." Ghoul mumbled to himself as he hit the floor. "Fuck—I thought we were… actually gunna…" He looked over, across Kobra’s limp and sprawled body, and to his leader’s. He wanted to see Poison's eyes, just one last time, but he couldn’t find them. Regret filled his throat as breathing became a struggle. "I..." Blinking several times to keep out the dark chill that was creeping up his body, he forced himself to move his mouth, even when no sound came out. Words he’d never said aloud stopped short on his tongue, cut off by a cold, throaty rattle as the Killjoy finally found rest.

The silent 'I love you' was left on his lips, like a ghost in the snow.

Jet could not look, but he knew. And he knew that he could not stop. As the rain continued to fall, he led the Girl through the square columns, a hand loosely stretched out to her. Her tiny legs kept up fine, especially with the fear of the blasts flying by her and scattering sparks around her. Jet dashed down the steps, turning as he pushed the Girl forward and down the sidewalk, getting her out of the way of the oncoming fire.

The fluffy-haired Killjoy barely got a shot out before one of the four 'Crow's shots hit right in the chest, without a sound upon contact. He fell back, on the hood of his beloved Trans Am, dead before he even made full contact.

The Girl was left standing in fear and horror as her last guardian lay dead upon the car in which she’d grown up. It wouldn’t be long before those guards would be on her. And who was she? How could she fight? She could run and grab Jet’s blaster…

And then Dr. D’s van pulled up and the door was pulled back, a heavensent junk van with a caution tape stripe on its side. Never had She been so happy to see such a vehicle. Out came two dark-clad boys, who ran behind the Trans Am for Cover, and Show Pony, who shot his pink blaster like a mad man as the Girl ran into the arms of the beloved Radio DJ. Show Pony Jumped back in and slammed the door shut just as DJ Hot Chimp floored it.

Within moments they were gone, back out to the desert to live another day. A few Dracs followed, but there was little hope for them, as the hope for the zone runners was now in the arms of the desert father, crying as much as a girl her age could. The fear and focus for running was leaking out of her, here in the safety of Dr. D’s arms, and all the pain and horror was now flooding in.

Her four guardians were dead. They were killed before her eyes, sacrificing themselves to save her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t care. All she knew was the twisting in her gut and the loud sound of her tiny breaking heart as it shattered inside her tiny chest. All she could see were the flying shots and shattering sparks over and over as her world crumbled. She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream until her throat was shredded and her face was blue. She wanted to cry until she made a salt pool in the desert. And so she did, screaming and crying in Dr. Death Defying's grip, but none of it could stop the pain. She wanted the Phoenix Witch to answer for this horrific crime against justice, against the world. Everything was out of balance now. Nothing was right. Nothing ever would be again.

The good doctor held her close, his own eyes pricked with tears. He couldn’t do much for her except be there, holding her tiny, shaking body close to his own. There were no words. No music. No sound save for her loud, wet, heaving sobs, almost violent for her tiny frame and her screams that shook her whole being. No one could even think of telling her to be quiet, as she was simply doing exactly what they wished to do.

Show Pony pulled off his helmet and leaned back. He and D shared knowing looks. The little desert flower in his arms would need tending. But now was no time for planning.

Now…

Now was their time to mourn.

~

The Young Bloods were crouched behind the Trans Am, afraid to move. Or rather, Patrick could not bring himself to and therefore brought Pete to a halt. They’d been too late to save the Killjoys, just as he’d known all along. And now, he’d disregarded Poison’s last wishes to him by getting out of the van. It was far too late to go back.

Pete, gripping tight to the white blaster and keeping a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, poked his head around the corner of the Welcome Wagon, peering through the glass doors and at piles of dead, white-suited figures.

Most of those left standing were busy ushering away the lifeless bodies of the now dead dracuoids. The rest were disappearing back into the building as lights began to turn on. Their enemy had been defeated and no one had anything to fear anymore. BLI had just neutralized their most dangerous threat. They’d taken damage in numbers, but recruiting was very simple these days with their technology.

The bassist fell back against the car, looking to Patrick. Needless to say, Patrick wasn’t doing so well. The severity of things seemed to have finally set in. He'd known this was not a game from the start; it had always been life or death. Given that, however, it was suddenly far too much for the little vocalist to handle alone.

The complex was huge, lined with security systems and manned with more mindless foot soldiers than the Fabulous Four had been able to handle, even with all the might of their fury. What the fuck chance did two random assholes in black leather have?

“Patrick…?” Pete intoned, putting a hand on the ginger’s shoulder. The poor fella almost jumped, snapping out of the tunnel vision of fear that he’d quite nearly gotten completely sucked into. Pete gave a small squeeze on the singer’s forearm. “…We can do it, Pat… We just need to find that machine.”

The singer nodded. They needed to use the Phoenix to find the element in the machine that would take them home. They needed to get back and fix everything. Everything that they’d fucked up so royally. He just wasn't sure how to do that. Patrick knew exactly what had to happen, but getting there was going to be something altogether else.

There was a vein of icy dread in him, cutting to his core that had frozen him in place. Fear of failing again. Fear of not being able to change a goddamn thing. Fear of letting this entire world down. Fear of falling apart.

As he sat there, stewing in his apprehension, shaking with guilt, Patrick heard an almost melodic sound of many beads clinking against one another, as if blown by a gentle desert breeze. The noise came accompanied by a strange wave of calm that the ginger vocalist did not understand until he looked up.

Encased in feathers and bandages, her face hidden by her mask, her throat and chest decorated with necklaces made of many hundreds of little, iridescent beads, The Phoenix Witch came down the path, fearing nothing and taking no notice of those around her. Her pace was leisurely and purposeful as she moved. However, her journey seemed to come to a halt only ten feet from the Young Bloods. She stood there, feet planted on the blood-stained earth, whatever she had for eyes fixed steadily on the BLI central compound.

“Patrick,” Pete said again, worried for his friend who'd begun staring into the distance at nothing. “Patrick, hey—”

“Can you…?” Patrick started, looking to his dark-haired partner, but didn’t bother to finish as Pete’s bewildered explanation told him everything. Pete couldn’t see the Phoenix Witch. Only he could.

But why?

He gripped tight to the blaster that had been forced upon him after exiting Dr. D's van and swallowed hard, waiting for his strange familiar to say something. Surely she had some sage wisdom to impart or another urging to do what had to be done. He waited for her to say anything.

But nothing came.. She made no movements and said no words. She simply turned her masked face to Patrick, her cape of feathers blowing with the desert wind she'd brought along, as if she was expecting something from him. Waiting for him. The Phoenix Witch was awaiting his command.

With a deep breath, Patrick began piecing together his courage. He looked to Pete and gave him a smile that looked very genuine. The curl of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of both eyes told Pete that it was not a forced gesture, meant to convince him everything was fine. They both knew it was fucked and now, they accepted it. The dark-haired bassist leaned in, stealing a last minute kiss from his partner.

They could do this. The two of them together were a force of nature.

Brown met green, both alive with determination. With a solid nod, they stood up from behind the graffiti-covered car. With a glance over his shoulder to the feather-clad Phoenix Witch, Patrick took a deep breath as he faced BLI. They hadn’t noticed the two dark clad figures yet, but they would.

The Young Bloods wouldn’t be destroyed so easily. And now they were here to finish the job. They had been cut down, humbled and broken, possessed, injured and nearly killed and now they would rise from their own ashes, bathing in their failure to ignite a flame that could not be extinguished.

Alive and burning inside with the power of the Phoenix, Patrick opened his mouth and screamed the words of the revolution.

**“PUT ON YOUR WAR PAINT”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it, guys?? This is chapter 12, which meaaaaaaaaaaaaans, we've been doing this for a YEAR!!! A whole year!!! I seriously cannot believe it. You guys are the best. So I just wanted to say, we love you all so much! You guys have been incredible and wonderful and we love to interact with you guys. We love your comments, and we love you!!
> 
> What else to say...? Ah, I just wrapped up a run of Annie, so this chapter was edited on my phone between scenes. That's how much we love you <3 See you next month darlings and don't hate us too bad, please? :D  
> ~Duchess


	13. The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Phoenix rises.

_“I'm gunna change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a Phoenix.”_

~

The music came from nowhere—or was it everywhere? The Witch seemed to chuckle, if the sound came out of her throat could be called a laugh. Every PA system in the BLI complex was blasting The Phoenix unbidden and Patrick's voice carried with it.

Jet Star arose as soon as the first notes of The Phoenix sailed through his ears, battered the drums and clasped his brain and heart like the claws of the Phoenix Witch who now walked side by side, unseen, next to Patrick.

Pete had watched in awe as the dead teen just sat up, grabbing his gun like it was natural, as if he hadn't just been gunned down on the roof of his beloved car. The Phoenix was playing everywhere, surging through the speakers of the Stalin-esque PA system, blasting at top volume. Dracs were seizing, screaming, clutching at their ears and heads and falling, motionless. Pete followed Patrick right through the front door. BLI was breaking, the glass walls shattering, floors cracking. Despite all the violence the room previously held, Pete smiled. Patrick was hope. Patrick was power. He was stronger than anyone and everyone, and Pete was there to see it.

Ghoul was the next up, shaking his head and clutching his blaster. He saw Jet Star and the Young Bloods stalk right on by, the mission now clear in all their heads. The dark-haired teen stood and joined them, fist tight around his blaster, but no real need to use it. Fun Ghoul was only a little surprised by this, but was having too good a time watching Draculoids and S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W agents fall to their knees and then completely prostrate themselves as the Fab Four and remaining Young Bloods ransacked their entire building with sound. Part of him knew that this was broadcasting all over the city and he hoped wherever Korse was, he could see it.

Kobra Kid up-righted himself shortly thereafter, brushing off and joining the crowd. He rolled his shoulder in its socked and cracked his neck, taking up an easy space next to Pete.The tall, lanky teen smiled at the Young Blood with strange familiarity. Of course, it was not so strange to Pete, but he wasn't about to try snagging the spotlight, thus crushing their victory lap, by melting Kobra Kid's brain with the knowledge that not only was he Mikey Way, but they may or may not have been something of an item a decade ago—in Pete's time, anyway. The bassist swallowed hard and refocused on Patrick and The Phoenix.

As they passed the wall where Party Poison had gone down, Ghoul stopped and stooped to one knee to help his friend up. Poison's eyes were fluttering open as his friend reached his level and met him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't wanna miss this, babe," Ghoul said, unabashedly utilizing their most intimate of pet names. Wrapping his hand around the back of the redhead's neck, he leaned his lips down and kissed Poison hard on the mouth. Perhaps yesterday, the fearless leader of the Fab Four would have protested the blatant show of affection, and he definitely would not have approved of the use of their secret pet names.

Instead of all that posturing, Poison had gasped to life, shocked, the only one to do so. He'd died defeated and woken up afraid for only a fraction of a millisecond. It faded as his addled brain realized Ghoul was there, smiling and kissing him. Everything seemed alright again. As dawn broke over the horizon, shattering the dark and guiding the Girl back out into the safety of the desert, Party Poison kissed Fun Ghoul for all he was worth, the gesture promising as much and more when they had time. The flame-haired Killjoy put a hand on the side of Ghoul's face, almost in tears. "I love you," he whispered, saying the words he'd never dared say, words he'd taken to his death. He was still confused. "Is this heaven...?" he asked.

"You wish," Ghoul smiled, knowing that somewhere in the back of Poison's mind he _had_ heard the silent words spilling from his right hand's dying lips, "but the Phoenix isn't done with us,” the tiny, tattooed teen pointed upward toward the ceiling where the PA systems were blaring the song, the call to arms, “and we're behind,”this last bit was indicated with a jerk of his head toward the hallway down which Jet Star, Kobra Kid, Pete and Patrick had disappeared. Standing, Ghoul offered a hand.

Poison took the hand gratefully, getting to his feet as his mind came back to him. Of course the Phoenix Witch had spat them back out. There was no room in the static for them. Ghoul. Kobra. Jet. They were all alive. Maybe they hadn't failed. The Phoenix wanted them to keep going. Well, _something_ wanted them going, anyway. They had a battle to fight and a war to win. They'd died and death hadn't agreed with them. Wasn't that just like a Killjoy?

"Then let's get going," Poison picked up his blaster, reloading it with a fresh pack, ready as if nothing had happened, adjusting like the others had done. He gave Ghoul a wicked grin and marched down the hall, the Phoenix giving them both new strength.

Side by side the leader of the Fabulous Four and his lover marched down that hall, holding their blasters close and the other boy closer. Ghoul had grabbed his lover's hand and was squeezing, imitating the way he _wanted_ to squeeze the trigger of his verdant blaster. Whatever had possessed the speakers was putting the bad guys down and breathing more life into the good guys than they knew how to handle. Both smiled uncontrollably, never stopping, hauling their asses inexorably toward what, they did not know, but Patrick was their guide and all fear was gone.

Unstoppable. Unbelievable. Undefeated and with no signs of that last bit changing. The two triumphant soldiers of the wastelands strode down the halls they'd once feared, now with their heads held high. They'd won. The spirit of the Young Blood movement was alive and crackling like wild fire, blazing strong. Mowing stepping over the prone bodies of the 'crows and all the beasts of BLI, Poison felt like he was flying with the Phoenix. They _were_ the Phoenix. They'd died and had arisen again. And now, they were going to destroy those who fought against sound for so long. They were going to change the world. Poison looked at Ghoul, grinning. They were going to change the world together.

As they reached the deepest spaces of BLI headquarters, Ghoul wrapped an arm around Poison's waist and pulled him close. He kissed the other boy with all the passion and adoration he'd held back for professionalism's sake. The sound was all around them, enveloping them and guiding them. They presently rejoined the group, rallied behind the Young Bloods. No words were exchanged between the members of the Fab Four; they knew where they stood. Where their feet fell, no music muncher would ever pass again, and it was this assurance that propelled them into the ugly depths behind the tiny vocalist and his lion voice.

The Killjoys stood for freedom and rebellion, for music and strength, for standing up for what was right. In this moment, Poison and Ghoul, they embodied all of it. They'd never denied each other, but they would never have completely embraced each other, either. Here, however, having conquered BLI and even death, they now conquered themselves. Poison gripped at the dark haired teen's arm, pulling him close, not ready to let him go just yet. He felt free in the best way possible.

Ahead of them, Patrick had not even skipped a beat, walking fearlessly at the head of the group, Pete on one side now and the Phoenix Witch on the other. He had expected to need her as a guide, assumed she would be the one to lead _him,_ but with the song, The Phoenix, he knew every turn and stairwell of this accursed place. Patrick's mind was completely on the music and he hadn't needed to use his blaster even once. Pete had actually set _his_ aside, in favor of holding Patrick's hand, instead. They strode down the halls, fearless and riding on the waves of victory, triumph and the afterglow of what had been desperation. There was one obstacle left before they reached the deepest vaults of BLI research and development—and she was armed.

"You won't get any further," the director of Better Living Industries barked, unsheathing her katana and pointing it at Patrick's chest. He moved fearlessly forward 'til the tip of her blade was pressed against his narrow, heaving torso. Patrick hadn't stopped singing. Pete was there at his side.

"You're not gonna stop us," Pete said. There was something familiar about this woman. He was instantly reminded of the women back in their time that had fought them at every turn. There was an echo of every one of them in this fearsome lady's dark, dead eyes. Here was a person who, to Pete's knowledge, had no soul. Her hatred and a deep, empty chill radiated through that blade of hers, pressing hard into his friend.Pete grabbed Patrick's unused blaster and raised it, pointing it at the woman's head. "You never could, you never will."

The power of The Phoenix gave him strength and confidence. Patrick wasn't going to stop singing and the Young Bloods and Killjoys would never stop fighting back.

"You can't win,” she hissed. Whatever she was, it was not human. She had no heart, nothing for the song to reach. Unbeknownst to the raiding party, far behind them, in the wake of their victory, BLI foot soldiers, special agents—even Korse—were awakening from their long, deep slumber, blinking eyes which had not seen beauty in an age. Some wept, others just shook, still more laughed and danced with each other.

In the depths, one final power struggle was transpiring. Pete was Patrick's mouthpiece, as the song had to be finished. Patrick grabbed Pete's hand and squeezed. The woman shoved her sword forward and pierced the singer's chest, quick and deep. He didn't stop. Tears built up in the corners of both eyes, but the song would not allow itself to be cut short.

Pete fired immediately, hitting the woman square in the head with the shot from his blaster the moment she'd made the slightest motion with the sword. Fucking chicks with swords. They ruined everything...especially if they were robots, which this particular one seemed to be. She jolted, as if electrocuted, her eyes rolling back into her head. Patrick kept singing. No matter what, Patrick would keep singing. The Phoenix was power. The director of BLI was also power, of a very different, much chillier variety.

She wouldn't stop, and neither would Patrick. The minuscule vocalist sang every word despite the cold metal embedded in his chest. The director convulsed once more and jammed the katana home before Pete decommissioned her. The bassist immediately shot a worried glance at his partner as the sword slid out of the puncture wound, pulled by the director's mechanical, dead weight. Patrick knew that he wouldn't die as long as the Phoenix Witch was at his side and he offered a smile through his song to Pete, reassuring him they would be alright.

On one side, his fingers were entwined with Pete's—actually, they'd never left, the other hand held the Phoenix Witch's claws. Pete couldn't see the Phoenix Witch, but he could feel her. He could feel Patrick's power through the song and somehow knew she was here with them. They were so close to winning. The element vibrated with the music, pulsing to the beat. It was easy to find the machine. Or, at least what had become of the machine. This one was larger, far sturdier and pulsed with the Phoenix.

This was it. This was their ticket to get home and fix everything. Fuck, he wanted to cry. They'd made it. He and Pat had survived. He tore his eyes away from the machine and looked over at the singer once more. What he saw were two very shadowy images he didn't believe were there at first.

Joe and Andy.

He put a hand over his mouth the moment he was able to make out their grinning faces. A few tears started to come to his eyes; he couldn't help it. For heaven's sakes, he'd watched Joe die and had not even been allowed to know if Andy made it or not. The Phoenix had brought them, he just knew it. Patrick saw more than shadows, and felt more than relief.

Andy gave a big thumbs up and Joe nodded with a cheeky grin. They were saying something, he couldn't hear...But he _would_. He'd know everything when he and Pete took the Killjoys back through that awful portal and fixed everything. The vocalist turned toward the Phoenix witch and thanked her by finishing his song. He stumbled back, the depth of his wound finally sinking in, heart's blood running freely therefrom. Fortunately, Pete was there to save him—as always. Pete caught the singer, putting his arm around the ginger's shoulders.

"...You did it, Pat... You were right... She saved us," he blustered. Fuck fuck, stop crying Pete! The bassist was overwhelmed with everything around them, all they had done, all they had lost and regained, all they had gambled. Despite it all, and against all odds, they had won. After everything and every piece of hell though which they had stumbled, from getting stabbed with a drum stick to Pat's missing hand and anti-music demon possession, the Young Bloods had finally come out on top. Patrick slumped against Pete.

Victory was within their grasp.

"So we're gunna have to trust this sucker is set for some time before we were total dumbasses—a-and after they disappeared," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate My Chem behind them, "and to be honest, I have no idea...if it's gunna work...." Given everything that had happened that day, however, Patrick was inclined to just go with it.

"Andy and Joe will be alive over there,” Pete reminded him. While it was a bit ridiculous to hope the machine was set just right for them, Pete had a feeling it would be. The pulsing of the Phoenix had probably woke the weird gizmo up in the first place. That kind of power couldn't be ignored. Patrick's connection to the Phoenix probably aided in giving them the right setting, or something. The bassist had neither a degree in experimental physics, or time travel, or whatever this was, nor did he want one. Instead, he simply grinned at Patrick and added, "and we're gonna go back a fix everything... We're going home, 'Trick."

"...whatever home is," Patrick was just then beginning to realize that they could not exist in a universe with themselves. Someone would have to go and he had a sinking feeling it would be this version of the two of them. Of course, there was no reason to tell Pete that, "but who cares, let's...get the...get the heck outta here."

"Sounds good. Here, someone help me with Pat," Pete said, pulling one of the singer's arms over his shoulder. Kobra came up by the other side, taking Pat's other arm. At the risk of dangling Patrick above the ground between them, which seemed undignified treatment for a guy who had just brought them back to life, Kobra Kid opted to advise Pete to move back.

“I swear I could lift the 'Wagon,” he assured the bassist, “just lemme carry him; you guys are both totally dusted, and I'm like...y'know, not.”

Pete acquiesced and watched as his former squeeze, who didn't remember he was Pete's former squeeze, lift his current flame with almost zero effort. He'd chuckled at Kobra's lack of verbal poetry, if only due to the sheer hysteria that threatened to claim him if he did not vent it some way. The tall Killjoy lifted a dark brow at Pete's strange behavior, but attributed it to exhaustion.

Jet elbowed Pete and mumbled a simple question, “we goin' through that?”

Pete nodded and took a deep breath. When it was put so simply, so boldly and blatantly, it was hard to ignore how ridiculous this entire situation was, or would have been, given different circumstances and players. Jet Star, however, seemed rather content with this answer and nodded, arms crossed, almost smiling, gaze drifting to Kobra Kid and his small cargo.

Ghoul had a strange feeling he needed to go through that bizarre, glowing portal. He knew in the depths of his soul that something awaited them on the other side they needed to see, to be. But there was also a strange, infinite sadness there... He pulled away from the best goddamn kiss of his life to look his friend and lover right in those beautiful eyes of his.

"No matter what happens," he gestured to the portal, "I love you, I will always love you; you're my best friend and I would die for you. Again and again, if that's what it takes."

Fun Ghoul was everything to Poison. His best friend, his right hand, his lover, his companion, the pain in his ass and the love of his life. Death and Life held no fear for him. Nothing scared him. Ghoul was at his side. Ghoul was all he needed.

"You're my best fucking friend. I'd be dead without you. I love you. Fuck, I love you more than I can say... You're the one I want at my side, always."

They spoke these words as new people, having arisen and been granted new lives and a fresh chance to save everything, to turn it all around, flip it over, wind it up and send it spinning into the brightest, most musical future anyone had ever dared dream.

"Let's go..." Ghoul spoke quietly, leaning his forehead on Poison's. He kept a tight hold of the youth, needing his presence for as long as it was offered. Pete, Jet and Kid looked back to ascertain if the other two were with them. Both zone runners were pleased to see their fearless leader and his piece of shit right hand in one piece and finally opening up about their relationship.

"Gunna make things easier," Jet pointed out. Kobra couldn't help but agree.

Poison nodded. He squeezed Ghoul's hand, never letting go. He had the dark-haired killjoy now, he wasn't going to lose him. Party Poison stepped forward to join the others, noting Patrick's troubled state and knowing he had to make anything he said damn quick.

"We're coming with you," he informed them, resolutely. Pete almost laughed, knowing they were intending take the Killjoys with them anyway. The world needed MCR back. He only hoped they would remember who they really were when they went through and that what Dr. Death Defying had said was right.

Ghoul loved when Poison took charge like that. He grinned, square jaw hardly diminishing how young he looked, how young he _was_. He tucked black hair behind one ear and stuffed gloved hands into his pockets.

"Nothin' left for us here," he reasoned, "so whatever's through there has got to be better."

Oh, if only the Killjoys knew—if only any of them knew what had been set in motion. The time travel had already deeply disturbed the Fabulous Four. Gerard and Mikey had relapsed into drugs and alcohol, Frank had just about stopped eating and Ray...no one spoke of it, out of respect. Danger Days had been an ugly time, caused by something no one could control.

If it was over when they stepped through that portal, Pete and Patrick would have been extremely surprised. When had their luck ever run that way? No, there was no coming back from this unscathed. Perhaps Ray, Mikey, Frank, and Gerard had worked it out, but fate had set a different path for Pete and Patrick. The realization—which had earlier dawned on Patrick—slowly became apparent to the bassist.

By returning, they would splinter themselves indefinitely and with little hope of repair. Where Mikey and company would be able to regain their lives and piece their minds back together, hopefully making sense of their previous disturbances, Pete and Patrick were effectively consigning themselves to a life parallel to the one that could have been. They would never be the same.

“What are we waiting for?” Fun Ghoul snapped irritably.

“It's callin' us,” Party Poison pointed out, “so go on—Young Bloods first.”

There was nothing for it but to press onward. Pete reached the light first, guided by the shadowy figures of the friends and bandmates they'd lost in their previous, failed excursion. It felt as though he was being pulled, face first, into a warm pool, complete with breathlessness, if only for a moment. There was a tug in the pit of his gut and then a whirl of energy all around Pete's broken body. The light engulfed him, his partner and the rest of the Fab Four, swallowing and tugging and encompassing each as they passed through time.

And tumbled out in Patrick's back yard!

Frank fell to his knees, coughing, shuddering and shaking. Ray scrambled to him, as he was closest and clapped the short man on the back, still unable to express concernverbally due to his own coughing spell. He was dizzy and sick, many thousands of thoughts flooding his head and then shattering.

"Wha...?"

"Pete...we...we're in that house, right now...this's the morning...the morning you stayed," Patrick whispered, half-pinned under a very disoriented Mikey Way. The ginger scrambled out from under the taller man as best he could, unwilling to let his thoughts slip to oblivion.

Pete looked around, recognizing Patrick's cozy home. The morning he stayed... That felt like eons ago, in another life. The pancakes and phone calls, back before Courtney Love sent her goons to take them. This was the day the boys decided to use The Phoenix to fight in the first place.

"Holy shit... Holy Shit, 'Trick! We've gotta find us!" Pete heaved, breathless and panicked.

The moment Poison had stepped through, his victory buzz was rippedfrom him, replaced with a dragging weight that pulled him downward, accompanied by a shooting pain that fried his brain. It came upon him so suddenly that he didn't have a chance to react, only collapse. He stepped forward Party Poison and fell out Gerard Way. And Gee's mind and heart were heavy, leaden places in which to suddenly find oneself after years spent as a neon-clad teen. When he finally managed to open his eyes and sit up, his head was pounding.

"Shit..." He muttered, oblivious to the Young Bloods' panic. This felt like a hangover times fifty. He rubbed his head, looking around. "...guys?" He looked at his band, eyes finally settling on the small guitarist he knew so well. "...What's goin on...?"

"Fuck if I know," Frank grunted once he recovered from his coughing spell. Ray was running his fingers through fluffy hair and then tugging at it, as if trying to extract information that way. The heavily tattooed guitarist patted _him_ on the back this time and gave a half-assed grin to Gerard. "We're alive...how'sat?"

Gerard couldn't help but smile. Frank had that effect on him.

"...Pretty damn good, gotta say..." The last thing he remembered was being in one of the labs in that building. The place had been empty, but... some chick was there with a sword and there was a light and then... nothing... it was like trying to remember a forgotten dream. He dared to stand up, trying to get a better look at their surroundings. This was Patrick's house, specifically, his back yard... what were they doing here...? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

"Hey, ah...why the fuck are we at Patrick Stump's house?" Frank recognized the back yard, the sunny sky, the whole cheery atmosphere that was simply oozing P-Stump. He clicked his tongue and forced himself to his feet. "Well whatever, I'm gunna go..." He trailed off, golden brown eyes widening with the realization of what they'd been doing before they showed up in Fall Out Boy's vocalist's back yard. "Gee, Mikey, Ray—we were in a goddamn basement," he hissed. "Dudes, we were in the belly of the fuckin' beast and now...what, now we're HERE?"

Mikey wasp aying more attention to the other two, trying his best to gather what was going on in context with what had just happened—or what had happened ten years ago, but also in the future? He was still up in the air about that one, but being the perceptive, quite Way had its advantages. The scene he was witnessing shocked and horrified him, leaving behind a slick, metallic sadness in the back of his throat.

Patrick was already scrambling, helter-skelter toward the house. He'd tossed a breathless apology over his shoulder to Mikey for maybe accidentally swatting him on the way up. Mikey had been damn surprised the little dude could move so quickly with such a deep puncture wound in his chest. Patrick was on a mission, however, and nothing would stop him. He had to find himself, his naive, useless self and help him, help _them_ understand what was going on and prepare. The world would become a noiseless wasteland without it. He fought his way up the stairs and bashed on the door with his stump, heedless of the agony.

The man who opened the door was so very similar to the one knocking and yet totally different. Innocent eyes opened wide at the bloody, battered mess in front of him. He shoved dark glasses up his nose and blanched.

"What th'..."

"Shut up, just shut the fuck up and listen to me; do not say a goddamn word 'til I'm done," began the crippled, wastelander Patrick. He grabbed himself by one shoulder and backed him into his own home. "I haven't got time, but you...have to know everything I know." Green met green and something connected between them, which perhaps was the self both sought and one found. "You're the leader of the Young Bloods and it's not by accident; The Phoenix is your childand she WILL fly but you can't do it without protection..."

The crippled one could feel himself fading, becoming cold and distant. Meanwhile the face of the creampuff leader of the Young Blood movement contorted into a twisted wreck of fear, rage, sadness and just a little bit of hope. He laced his fingers with those remaining on the right hand of his jaded counterpart and both sunk to their knees as if in silent prayer. As soon as the battered version of Patrick hit the floor, his entire form faded into nothing more than a shimmer of what could have been dust motes in the early morning sun. Patrick fell to hands and knees where his wiser self had once been—but now, wasn't he the wiser one?

He now knew what had to be done.

A moment later, Pete Wentz burst through the door in familiar, if dusty, clothing. He offered no apology, but scooted straight to Patrick's bedroom, ripping the sheets off of his sleeping self. Shit, that asshole looked so innocent. He envied his past self so much, Pete almost let himself go before—but no, that was not an option. More lives than he could count hung in the balance.

"Wake up, motherfucker," he snapped, "I've got shit to say that's gonna blow your mind."

He had his own attention and instantly jumped into enlightening his past self. He explained how the Young Blood Movement was the most important thing he would ever be a part of; that Pete was going to have to fight harder than he ever had and be stronger than he'd ever been before. He was going to have to protect his friends with everything he had. And Patrick.

“Who is—”

"Patrick is the most important person in the world," wasteland Pete interrupted, grabbing his younger self’s shoulders, driving the point home, "so you protect that mother fucker with your life, you understand? You are to never leave his side. Never leave his side, dammit!"

“Patrick is...” The half-dazed, terrified-out-of-his-wits Pete tried to make sense of what his doppleganger was barking at him. It seemed as though the message was not getting through. As the damaged Pete spoke his last words, he began to fade. He could feel himself slip and became desperate. Gripping tight to his younger self, he tried like mad to make the guy realize the importance of his words, and of his friend.

"Never leave him," he repeated as he loosed the groggy, disoriented version's shoulders before stumbling back a few feet. He hit the ground with an audible thud before fading away completely.

The Pete from the morning blinked, unsure of what had just happened when memories that he knew were his but... not his began to solidify in his mind. He got up from the bed, tugging on some boxers to go find Patrick. He wasn't going to get warned by his past self to stay by Patrick and not stay by Patrick. "

'Trick...?" he queried, tentatively.

Patrick was still on his knees just about in his doorway. He could still feel his other self's hand on his shoulder. Gingerly, the redhead touched the area and was immediately assaulted with horrid visions of a meat cleaver sheering right through the flesh and bone of that same hand. He cried out and pitched forward, curling tightly and gasping. Patrick was suddenly privy to a shitload of information for which he had no recollected source. Everything that had happened up 'til this point suddenly became clear and divergent all at once. He wondered if My Chem would remember what had happened...and if their way of coping was by turning the whole experience into an album.

Pete was instantly at Patrick's side. He was still processing all this information he now had. It was all so vivid and strange, but accompanied with so much pain there was no way it was just a dream. He was more than slightly confused, and there was an aching in the center of his back that hurt worse than just about anything he'd ever had, but Patrick was on the ground. He was first priority. Pete put his hand on Patrick's back, getting down on the floor by the ginger.

"Shit, 'Trick, talk to me!"

Patrick was staring at the ground, trying hard to fight the urge to shriek and curl up on his side, deathly afraid of the vague tingling in his left wrist and totally unprepared for what had just entered his mind. It was too real to have been a dream and from the way Pete was acting, he'd felt the same thing. Or maybe it was because Patrick was on the ground. He tore his eyes away from the carpet and forced himself to look at his friend, face a twisted mask of panic. Instinctively, he tossed pale arms around Pete's neck and clung to him.

Pete pulled Patrick against his chest, tight. His face was still contorted in confusion, but things were slowly starting to come together. Even if they didn't, he knew it was right, being here with Patrick. There was a sense of dread in his mind, a need to protect the small man from harm. Pete's big, tattooed arms held the ginger close and tight. It was odd, following the instructions of his doppleganger with such fervor.

Pete Wentz, the man who had never been able to settle couldn't let go, not this time. He felt like crying, but wasn't sure why, aside from the splintered, fractured, broken pieces of his past, present and future floating around in his mind. He refocused himself on Patrick, who he had a feeling was suffering more from this.

"...What did we do, 'Trick?" Pete asked quietly.

"W-we fucked up, man," Patrick responded, voice and eyes distant. He was pressed hard against Pete's chest but his arms were dangling, as if he didn't know what he ought to do with them, as if they weren't really part of his body. A thought suddenly dawned on him as he remembered—or foresaw what they'd done or would do. "But there's...a way to stop all that happening, I...I told myself...or...did I just know?"

Back on the lawn, Gerard closed his eyes, trying hard to remember anything. It was like trying to remember a dream he'd awoken and already forgotten. There were flashes of color but he just couldn't get at it, like he was reaching at a door too far away. He remembered the building. They'd gotten in and were close to whatever secrets it held. But everything after that was a blur...was it in the past-future or just the past? Had he imagined it? Had they hallucinated it? He sighed, opening his eyes and climbing to his feet.

"I've got no idea... Maybe Patrick knows... We're already here anyway." He shrugged. "Might as well ask, right?"

"Why not?" Frank was beyond confused about whatever was going on. He just remembered the laughter of some seriously fucked up chicks, a bright warm light and then nothing...and then this. He glanced at Ray who was ogling the younger Way brother intently, clearly worried about him. Mikey was so very sensitive to weird shit like this, had been since they'd joined the Young Blood movement.

"Mikey?" He ventured. "Are you...alright?"

Mikey was on all fours, suddenly trying to keep his lunch down. He was just about to reassure Ray that he was fine when his efforts failed and he spewed forth whatever was in his stomach onto Patrick's lawn. Coughing and heaving erupted and Gerard scrambled to his feet to make sure his brother was okay. Once it was all out, Mikey shuddered, feeling weak, but waving off both men. His vomit smelled like dog food. Man, what had he eaten?

"Heh... yeah, just peachy...," he wheezed to Ray and Gerard, offering the former a weak smile before spitting into the grass. His gut was doing loops like he was on a roller coaster. Whatever they'd done, it was not agreeing with him. It was clear he was not alright, though he felt as though this was neither the time nor the place to own up to such a thing. Ray moved forward and rubbed his friend's back, looking back and up at the other two.

"Go on, guys—I'ma stay with Mikey," he urged, turning his attention back to the younger Way sibling and mumbling something about how he was going to be okay and they were going figure this out together. Frank, meanwhile, all business—or as much as could fit in that tiny body of his—tilted his jaw toward the house, indicating they ought to move and sort this shit out. He was damn restless.

Gerard patted his brother's head as he passed, assuring themhe and Frank would be back. He strode to Frank's side with a bit of a strut that he normally reserved for onstage shenanigans. His body just seemed to take over, doing things over which he seemed to have little control. One of these things was his hand going to his hip, as if he was about to grab something—a blaster, perhaps?

Frank noticed the motion and found himself fighting the urge to slide his right hand over his chest to grab at a playful, toy-looking firearm that was not there. As kids, they'd grown up having weird, residual nightmares that seemed oddly similar, when comparing notes later. Mikey had the same and so had Ray, which was really odd. When they entered Patrick's house, finding him and Pete on the floor, things began to fall into place, or at least, in Frank's mind they did. These dudes knew something.

"Uh..." he cleared his throat fairly loudly, causing Pete to jump, scrambling upward to take up a defensive position in front of Patrick.

"Gerard fuckin' Way!" Pete yelled, happy in the realization that these two guys had most likely not come to poke holes in either him or his dizzy companion. "Frankie!"

The bassist ran to them, pulling them into a bone-crushing hug. He was filled with the warm glow of relief. The glow radiated outward and flowed into Frank and Gerard who, though a tad confused, were more than happy to accept the gesture.

"Good to see you too, man," Gerard managed out as he was finally released from Pete's tight grip, "but we just... fell into the backyard... And I'm wondering if alcohol was involved or—What's going on?"

"Ow," Frank grunted, which was followed by, "Yeah, what the fuck," as an addendum to Gerard's more well-phrased question.

The worry Gerard's voice caused Frank's hand to slide into his and squeeze. No one knew what trouble Gerard had found himself in during recent years better than Frank Iero. He wasn't talking, but the gesture communicated more than words. Relapses happened, he respected that, but having soemthing like that occur at such a crucial time, when they'd been so close to infiltrating Courtney Love's outfit.

And that's when it hit him. She'd nabbed them, faked their death or disappearance and flung all four of them through some weird portal. Clearly, that portal led to Patrick Stump's back yard, however, and so it was a total failure. Wasn't it? He remembered their breakup being a cover to work better in the shadows, but not much after their imprisonment—hell, he didn't remember much during...except drugs, a whole lot of drugs.

 

"We've...got a lot to tell you guys..." Patrick said shakily, standing. Neither Frank nor Gerard liked the sound of that.

“You sure...” Pete intoned quietly, wondering if Patrick was fit to speak, but he showed himself to be quite capable, cutting his protective friend off artfully and gently.

"Get the—I assume Mikey and Ray are in my back yard too? G-go get 'em..." he waved his hand wearily and turned to go inside, "and...then lock the door...we've...there're things you'll wanna hear...or not but, they need to be said."

Gerard's brow furrowed, but he nodded.

"...alright. Give us a minute,” he responded, starting back outside, his hand keeping an easy hold on Frank's; the grip was without thought. His mind was elsewhere. What was so secret that had Patrick so...freaked out? He didn't know. It clearly wasn't good. But he clung to the comfort that Frank was there and would likely always _be_ there.

As they made their way back across the lawn, a quiet scene was playing out, one that neither Frank nor Gerard had any desire to interrupt.

"I'm alright," Mikey had been attempting to reassure his friend since his brother and Frank left. He knew Ray wasn't gonna leave him alone, no matter how many times he said it, but he said it anyways. "I'm fuckin fine..." He spat into the grass again, the nasty taste of vomit still in his mouth. Mikey looked up at the fluffy haired man keeping such a close eye on him. "I'll be alright, man, I'm not dying or anything..."

"Yeah, okay—sure," Ray's tone conveyed a total saturation of disbelief. He felt like he'd been hit by a train or several. His back was sore and his thighs were burning, like he'd been running and ducking and doing shit that a guy who played guitar in an emo band didn't normally do...Unless that guy was Frank Iero who was a tornado onstage. Ray curled his body to be closer to Mikey and then leaned in and planted a kiss on his bony cheek.

“What?” Mikey questioned.

"Just in case," Ray justified.

Mikey looked at Ray, the kiss being a bit of a surprise but definitely not an unpleasant one. He smiled, despite the twisting of his gut. He was convinced that Ray Toro was the human embodiment of sunshine. The blond bassist was about to say something to that effect when Gerard and Frank returned, indicating they should come inside. Mikey nodded, giving his brother a thumbs up before slowly getting to his feet. Ray mimicked the nod and stood with Mikey. Gingerly, the fluffy-haired guitarist slipped an arm around Mikey's waist, sort of leaning into him but simultaneously supporting him.

"Lead the way."

Gerard smiled, raising an eyebrow at Mikey, who simply rolled his eyes as he put an arm around Ray's shoulders for support. God, were they a sorry mess. All of them had some sort of physical ailment, not to mention a bad headache. Hopefully, what Patrick had to say would shine some light on everything that was going on.

Inside, Patrick had nestled himself on the couch, knees up to his chest, arms around them. He was still digesting what the other, mangled version of himself had said. The vocalist was scared shitless about the information in his head and even more afraid of how it might come out, especially to Gerard and company.

Pete returned from putting pants on, settling himself next to the shivering vocalist. He steeled his mind and heart for the inevitable breakdown when they delivered their unbelievable, but simultaneously one hundred percent true account of what happened—or would happen, if they fucked up again—in California, 2019.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a whirlwind year, that's for damn sure. I'll bet you guys thought we were gunna pull some kind of April Fool's joke! Not a chance, no... the chapter's late because I (the-hidden-passenger) was at work all day and didn't stay up late enough last night to do my customary 12:01 post. Stay tuned for the concluding chapters (1 or 2 more, we haven't decided).


	14. To The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the start, with more allies and a fresh chance to stop this fucked up future they've just escaped from happening all together, Pete and Patrick are eager to get all their ducks in a row. However, time travel, it turns out, is a bit more dangerous than anyone thought, and their jump might have caused more damage than good.

_“If you marry me; would you bury me? Would you carry me to the end?”_

~

Once the band finally got in and settled in across from Pat and Pete, a loud pause reigned supreme. The MCR boys didn't know what to ask and Pat and Pete didn't know where to begin. So much had happened in such a short span of time, summing it up neatly seemed like an impossible endeavor. "Uh... so, what's the last thing you guys remember?" Pete began, tentatively.

“We were in the basement of the uh...a uh...facility...thing," Ray mustered. He didn't know what to call it or how to name the group against whom the Young Bloods had been quietly battling for a year or more now. It was frightening not knowing the name or the exact number of your opponents. The boys of My Chem had found out the hard way the answer to one of those things was "a fucking lot."

"More like some fucked up R&D lab, like...a fucking hive, or something." Frank added. He looked between the tiny ginger and his emo king companion. They were both white as sheets—Patrick more so than usual.

"And then you were here...?" Patrick asked.

"No, there was a thingy," Mikey corrected, finally jumping in with his very specific addition to the story. "Remember? Like some weird portal bullshit...thing..."

Gerard's brows pulled together, staring earnestly at his hands, trying to think of what had happened. He nodded slowly as something started very slowly trickling back to him. "Yeah... yeah, there was that... fucking machine thing... it started to glow, and then... something went wrong... And then..." He trailed off, unsure of what came next. It was a mental blank space. "...Then we were here..." At a loss, everyone looked at Pete and Patrick, waiting for the gaps the boys could fill in.

"...What happened?" Frank reluctantly asked. They could all feel something seriously terrible had gone down, but the way the emo king and soul punk seemed to avoid the eyes of the members of My Chem gave them a serious pit in their gut.

Pete licked his lips, thinking about where to begin. "Well... this is gonna sound incredibly crazy, but... That machine? It was a time machine, or something... It sent you guys... into the future." He let that sink in a bit before going on. He never made eye contact for long, telling his story mostly to their shoes or the wall behind them. It was much easier than looking at their confused and disbelieving faces. "But... the future you got sent to was one where... where the Young Bloods lost... and the world got taken over and destroyed by this psycho cult... thing."

"You're the Killjoys," Patrick said finally, ripping off that verbal band aid. "That album is...an alternative timeline of your teen years, all four of you—" He cleared his throat, knowing how crazy it sounded. “Gerard,” He said, turning specifically to the red-headed lead singer. "You couldn't get those images out of your head, right? And you finally coughed it out into an album—right?" He didn't mean to sound insensitive but he needed everyone on the same page if they were gonna play their enemy’s games. "You guys were the last defense against—well, what ended up becoming or—will become the BLI if we let it."

"Slow down, pint-size," Frank jumped in. The irony of his statement wasn't lost on anyone, but only Ray chuckled till seriousness of what Patrick was saying sank in. "Go back...go back..."

"You four," Patrick pointed to each one of them. "Were the killjoys—or might become them if we fuck up—I-I'm not sure at this point, but I...okay j-just now, I met myself, a...a mangled, angry version of myself from a possible future..." His story was eccentric at best and sounded more and more bizarre with every word. "I had a hook hand," Patrick moaned helplessly, dropping his head into his hands. Neither were hooks.

"I met myself too," Pete jumped in while Patrick recovered. "He got shot in the back with like... a crossbow thing." The MCR boys were just nodding at this point, listening certainly, but weren't quite following. "Look, the point is... some serious shit is about to go down. And...unless we stop it, a lot of people are going to die and the world's gonna turn into... the world of Danger Days." It sounded so weird in his head and even weirder out loud. "But... Since we know what's gonna happen, we can prevent that future from ever happening, and Danger Days will just be an album!"

"Call Joe and Andy—" Patrick said suddenly. "Now." He elbowed Pete to get his ass in gear. Suddenly, the timid singer became the Young Blood leader, the knowledge of what he had told himself flowing through his mind and forcing his heart to beat with bravery. "Tell 'em to watch out for black, windowless vans; make 'em ride together—whatever it takes."

Pete practically leapt over the couch after the order was given. "I'm on it," he called as he went to grab his phone. They were going to need everyone and Pete just needed to see Joe again so his last memory of him wasn’t his dead face staring at a dirty hospital ceiling.

Patrick turned back to My Chem and stared deep into each of their eyes in turn. "You guys broke up to keep fighting for this cause, this movement, well now we need you all more than ever," he said with a conviction hitherto unknown. "I have a song...it's called the Phoenix..."

And so it began as Patrick explained his creation and what she had done. How she’d impacted the album and what she could do for the world’s future. The Phoenix was their greatest weapon. She'd saved their lives back at BLI and gave the MCR boy’s their lives back. No doubt she could do some damage here.

"Let's do it," Mikey said adamantly. "We always said we were a band that wanted to save lives." He looked at his comrades, his eyes alight with passion. "We joined the Young Bloods to stop these guys once and for all. So let's do it!"

Mikey was absolutely right of course, as all of the My Chem boys were thinking the same thing. Gerard looked from Mikey to Ray and finally to Frank. This was something they needed to do. Absentmindedly, his fingers laced with Frank's, drawing some strength from the other man, before he looked back at Patrick with a nod.

"Count us in, dude. We'll do whatever we can to help."

Patrick decided to wait 'til Andy and Joe got here to continue with the finer details of the plan, but smiled with a huge sigh of relief. The men of My Chem were with him all the way, willing to follow him to their deaths. Not that they were going to. Not this time. There’d been too much death already. They would protect him and he them...in a manner. It was how it had to happen else they were all doomed.

A pregnant silence fell on them as Patrick gathered his thoughts. He wanted to offer food and drink but couldn't bring himself to stand. His legs felt like noodles. Exhaustion was starting to infect him, slowly spreading. Every sci-fi movie he’d ever seen with time travel started flicking through his mind, searching for some explanation he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. "Pat—yo...!" came the voice of that wild haired guitarist. "You guys in there? C'mon—let us in."

Pete was at the door in seconds. He felt like a dog, the way he'd been running to the doors and hugging everyone who walked in. Joe and Andy were no exception. The images and memories of their deaths were still in the bassist's mind, even though they were both right in front of him, quite clearly alive. But Pete wouldn’t let go, unaware of how awkward it was for the others that were being forced to participate.

"Uh... You okay Pete?" Andy asked, patting the Pete’s back gently.

"Yeah, yeah... it's just... good to see you." He let go, giving the guys reassuring smile. "C'mon in guys." He stepped back, letting 'em walk into the rest of Patrick's house.

They didn’t get very far, though as once they saw the members of My Chem sitting on the couch, they both froze briefly with surprise. Joe had to do a double take while Andy’s eyebrows went up in surprise behind his Ray-Ban’s.

"Holy shit!" The drummer exclaimed, looking from the prodigal band to Patrick. "Where'd you find these guys?!"

Gerard, acting as the voice for My Chem, looked to Pete and Patrick. "How long have we been gone?" he asked, unsure if the answer was really something he wanted to know.

"Like… a few months,” came Pete’s answer. “It's been a while."

"Everyone thought you'd died—" Patrick cut himself off. They had died, of course but they didn't need to know that. The guys had enough issues for all involved. As Andy and Joe followed Pete in, Patrick stood, shakily, to greet them. He was still pretty messed up from the trip he'd never taken, as seeing Joe again made him want to burst into tears. Fortunately, he was able to keep that down tight.

Joe was just pleased to see everyone, of course and gave off his usual aura of easy-going, good humor. "Now...what's this about—" He stood up straight at the sight of Patrick’s shaky and pale body coming towards him. "Holy shit, Pat'—you look like...well...I guess like you've seen a ghost."

It was as good a description as any. Patrick couldn't have agreed more. He wasn't sure it hadn't been a ghost of some kind, but whatever he'd told himself, the man knew it to be absolutely true. Somewhere deep in his gut, he knew for a fact he had better listen to his other self and follow his newly bestowed instincts.

"Well... We kinda did... It'd be best to pull up a chair, guys, we've got some things to tell you that you might wanna hear..." He took a moment to collect his thoughts before he started to fill them in on what was going on and what had happened and just pray the other two believed him.

Patrick couldn't meet anyone's eyes. He couldn't even tell the story. The ginger let Pete retell it while he studied his knees, around which his arms were wrapped tightly. The sun sank toward the horizon as Pete relayed every detail of their bizarre experience in the world of Danger Days—or rather, the future of California and probably the world.

When he finished Pete watched Joe and Andy's faces. Patrick ventured a glance up at Joe. It was hard to look at the guy he'd killed, but his guitarist friend didn't seem to have a problem looking back at him. There was a lot of info to take in but it was digestible, and secondary to Patrick's well-being. The kid had always been pretty sensitive.

"I know it's a lot to take in—"

"Yeah it is," Andy said, as he shifted a bit in his chair. Being told about your own death wasn’t exactly a fun family activity. "But... It kinda makes sense. You think the Phoenix will take 'em down?"

"Okay, yeah," Joe agreed, “that's weird.”

Ray nodded, adding: "It's actually stranger the second time."

Frank was processing this information again until he noticed Gerard's movement next to him. The singer’s face had sunk into his other hand while shoulders went limp and body deflated, as if all his usual life and zest had drained out of him. Realizing all their bizarre dreams, their splintered childhoods, the long nights unable to sleep were due to an alternative timeline in their past didn't make it easier to deal with.

At the same time, Frank thought back to the first time he and Gerard had...hooked up, is what the kids were calling it. But it wasn't a hook up. It was the first in a long string of trysts that began in a bed, and continued on counters, the floor, the back of the tour van, sometimes even backstage or in a dressing room. It was as though they desperately needed the other but could never figure out why. Now that Frank knew he was Fun Ghoul and that Gerard was Party Poison, he understood—if only a little better—the deep-seated need.

"Hey, ah, I'd feel better if we weren't separated for a while," Frank piped up finally, voicing a concern he felt that everyone was having. Looking around, he gathered general nods of consensus and agreement.

“Yeah,” Pete agreed.  “We need to lay low until we plan to unleash this thing." He looked across at the My Chem guys. They all looked like... well, like they'd just come back from the dead. They needed time and rest before they were gonna go anywhere or stop anyone. "You guys should eat something and lie down or whatever."

"That actually sounds like a great idea..." Gerard muttered. His head was killing him. He wanted nothing more to curl up and sleep, preferably next to Frank if he could help it. The pair was close. Weirdly close, though the weirdness was starting to make sense now, now knowing that it had been fueled in part by two desperate teens that they'd both been and created. Nothing made sense, and yet it made complete sense.

"Pat's got shit in his basement," Joe recalled. "Andy, Pete and I have crashed here like, a billion times." He also knew the guy had a guest room. They all lived in apartments but Patrick was more of the suburban type. He enjoyed having a yard and room for friends.

The ginger nodded, grateful Joe was willing to voice what he simply could not...not yet. "I...can cook..." He whispered, forcing himself up from the couch. His shuffling gait was characteristic of someone much older—or someone totally shell shocked. He brushed by Pete on the way out, the pain in his eyes ugly, and visible to all.

"To the basement...!" Ray said suddenly, hopping up. He grabbed Mikey by the hand and gave a tug. "Lead the way, Jo-Tro."

The curly-haired-but-not-as-much-as-Ray man did as asked, grinning at Ray's ever-bubbling enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Frank turned his attention on Pete with a bit more aggression than he intended.

"You're not gunna leave him alone...not for a second," he ordered, gesturing to Patrick. It wasn't a question, nor a suggestion, but a statement fueled by the own panic he felt at the thought of losing grip on Gerard.

Pete was startled, not expecting such a fervent demand from the guy. But the bassist smiled a bit at Frank's words, eyes glancing at the emo queen in tow of the guitarist. Frank felt just as protective as he did. The way Ghoul and Poison had been, he was almost surprised the two hadn't kissed yet.

"I won't if you don't."

"Fair," the guitarist responded, keeping a tight hold on Gerard, who wasn't entirely there at the moment.

Pete smiled at Frank, patting his shoulder. "Go lie down. You too, G. We'll talk more when you wake up." Gerard nodded, becoming refocused at the sound of his nickname. He gave the emo king a weak smile, said a thank you, then went off with Frank to the basement, more than ready to crash like the rest of them. Time traveling really packed a wallop.

Mikey followed Ray and Joe. His vision was swimming a bit, but he just followed the fluffy hair that was leading him ahead. He clung as tight as he could to Ray's arm, a bit afraid he'd fall over if he let go. "I'm so fucking tired," he muttered. He leaned his head against Ray's shoulder.

"I can imagine," Andy said, taking up the rear of the expedition. "But, you guys have no idea how glad we are that you're back."

"I wanna say I'm glad to _be_ back," Ray groaned. "But I hardly knew I was gone!"

It was a fucked up, confusing-as-shit situation for everyone involved. The fluffy haired guy was primarily focused, at this point, on helping the younger Way sibling, however. In fact, to keep things in perspective, Mikey was his only concern.

"We'll crash as soon as we know where's cool to do it," Ray promised Mikey, careful to pick his path wisely so the other guy wouldn't run into anything. They were all tired but while Gerard seemed in a daze, Mikey was just fucking pooped. Ray was supporting much of the slender fellow's weight with his arm.

Patrick had a rather spacious basement. It had one large, open room and an offshoot room for laundry. In that area, there were blankets, pillows, sheets and folding cots galore. Joe pointed to the stuff and then grabbed some, throwing a bundle or two to Andy.

"That's how it usually works around here—we need to work late on lyrics or somethin', Pat' just sets us up," he smiled sunnily. "He's probably the nicest dude alive."

Mikey nodded at Joe's commentary on the ginger whose house they were in. "Seriously. Patrick's a goddamn angel... No wonder the poor guy's so shaken up. Shit's harsh..." The younger Way was doing fairly well at covering the pain and exhaustion that was demanding his attention, but he doubted he’d be able to keep it up much longer. Patrick’s cots were looking better and better with every step.

Andy nodded, setting up cots and rolling out sheets and blankets. "Yeah... I'm a little surprised he's holding it together as well as he is... I mean... Shit, if I had a hook hand, I'd freak out too!" He stepped back from finishing a cot, gesturing for someone to go ahead and take it while he moved to set up another. "But at least he's got a second chance..."

"Yeah," Gerard said, sitting one of the cots. "But that ain't shit you forget... That's gonna follow him for the rest of his life..."

Images of killjoys and BLI had followed Gerard for years now. They still plagued his dreams sometimes. Being pinned against a wall, helpless, defeated. He feared for what Patrick would see...

Ray moved away from Mikey long enough to take a blanket. He wasn't ready to weigh in on the situation yet. Instead, he was focused on helping the taller Way set himself up for a nap—or a coma, which he looked like he needed just now. He looked with affection on the man, and realized then and there that yes, he was probably very much in love with Mikey Way; he just didn't have a good manner in which to express it. And least of all under the same roof as the other half of the very shattered “sweet little dudes.” The summer of like had been kind to no one, but Ray was hoping to soften that memory by making some of his own with Mikey.

Eyes barely opened, Mikey looked up at Ray and smiled. The fluff ball was always looking out for him. Mikey was strong, but whenever he let himself slip back, he always had Ray Toro to back him up. "Thanks," he said. He'd already sat down and knew if he stood up he'd get vertigo, but it didn’t stop him from pulling Ray down onto his level and kiss the guitarist's cheek before falling back on the cot, almost out before his head hit the pillow.

Frank was a little less...tactful about the whole thing. Instead of sitting on the cot _next_ to Gerard, he sat _on_ Gerard, thighs on either side of his hips, forehead pressed to the older man's. He just really didn't want to be away from Gerard any longer. They'd been physically close, granted, but something in the back of his mind warned him that he'd better be on that at _all_ times. Of course they'd fooled around in the past, who the fuck hadn't? But right now, it felt...very serious.

Gerard instinctively wrapped his arms around Frank's waist. His head hurt so bad, but he just knew he had to keep Frank close to him.

"Guys—" Joe started but then stopped himself, shook his head and went about his business. That was something between which he was not willing to insert himself. Some part of his mind, no, his soul recognized what they had was simultaneously toxic and life-giving, dangerous and addictive as any drug but revitalizing like a dose of vitamins.

Across the room, Ray threw a blanket over Mikey and grinned, standing over the sleeping bassist with such admiration in his eyes that Joe and Andy were only a few seconds from just giving these guys some space. But Ray made his way back over, holding out his hands for his own cot and blanket. Joe distributed one of each to him and My Chemical Romance's painfully talented lead guitarist propped himself up next to Mikey.

"Hope you guys don't mind...I'm exhausted," it was more of a courtesy as Ray knew they didn't. To that end, Joe shook his head.

"Nah, dude—I'm pretty wired so me an' Andy'll play lookout, right?"

Andy nodded. "Sounds good, bro." He looked over to Ray, who was the only one paying attention to them. "Give a holler if you guys need shit. We'll be just upstairs." There was such a cloud of exhaustion around the My Chem guys, Andy had a feeling they'd be just fine, but he felt it necessary to put the offer out in case something came up.

"Yeah, I'll holler," Ray responded on behalf of all the other, giving them a wave in a brief form of thanks. The fluffy-haired man was out in minutes after closing his eyes, the sound of Mikey Way's soft breathing lulling him to sleep.

~

Patrick stood in the kitchen, staring out that window of his, watching the street. There were no black vans, no beautiful women in dark leather, nothing but a man walking his small dog. Patrick waved, the man waved back. It was a normal, suburban view. He crossed his arms and wondered if all this stuff was really happening or if he was dreaming again. Maybe he'd wake up and the space in the bed next to him would be warm, but empty. Pete would be gone and he'd go about his day like the emo king had never been there.

But instead, Pete came up behind Patrick. He looked out the window, glad they weren't being watched by anyone anymore, but still concerned for both the group's safety and Patrick's. "How you holding up?" he asked, placing a hand on the small of Patrick's back.

Patrick nodded by way of response to Pete's question. He was still staring out the window, eyes fixed on some distant point; somewhere perhaps only he could see. Who could say what was going through the singer's mind? Maybe he was envisioning the place like the wasteland it would become if he failed.

They were both silent for a bit, but couldn't help but feel a bit responsible for that melancholic look on Patrick’s face. None of this would've happened if he'd just stuck by the singer. He reached out, taking Patrick's hand in his own. "...'Trick, I... I just wanna say... I'm sorry... For everything. For using you, leaving you, and not being there when you needed me... I should have been there, I shouldn't left, I shouldn't have been with Monica... I should've been here with you..." All of this was said to Patrick's feet, as if the bassist were Patrick’s dog that had just gotten busted. "I'm sorry..."

Oh how the tables had turned. The once bold, tabloid cover-grabbing bassist was staring at the miniature vocalist's shoes, trying to convey a sentiment he could not fully understand. Patrick knew what that felt like; it sucked and he wouldn't let Pete go through it. "You're blaming yourself," he observed. "Don't. It's not gunna help." He was exhausted, mentally and physically and there was an ugly tingle in the joint of his left wrist. The ginger wrapped his arms around Pete's midsection and laid his head on the man's shoulder.

The emo king's gut was just clawing with guilt, but Patrick was like Aloe Vera for the soul. Beating himself up over this wouldn't do anyone any good. He put his hands on Patrick's back and held the singer close to him, wanting nothing more than to keep Patrick here forever. Patrick always gave the best hugs. It probably came from him being the physical embodiment of how candy tastes.

"I'm still sorry... I'm not going anywhere this time, I promise..." He meant to sound strong, but the words were so fragile that they broke in the same breath they’d been carried on.

Somehow, Patrick knew that Pete was not playing around—that he would never again play around. They were in this for the long haul, whether that meant weeks, months, years or just one day. The ginger clung to Pete, breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth of flesh under t-shirt. Patrick was not the kind to hold a grudge, which worked in Pete’s favor. Through all of his running around, he'd hurt Patrick the most. No one deserved any of the shit that Pete had forced on the singer, and yet Pat had never told him to fuck off. The door was always open for the human wreckage that was Pete Wentz.

"We'll make it," Patrick said, responding with a promise of his own. Somehow, the little ginger was certain of their victory. With Pete's alliance, with his promise to stay with the vocalist, they were assured a win over Courtney and her goons.

And in that brief moment, they kissed, sealing their promises to the other in the most intimate and vulnerable way they could.

Just then, Joe wandered into the kitchen, followed by Andy. "Oh. Oops.” Joe said simply.

Patrick peeked around Pete's shoulder and smiled at the other half of Fall Out Boy. “S-sorry…” he flushed, scratching the back of his head.

"No...it's cool," came Andy’s response, Looking  100% neutral at his bandmates. It was a talent he had cultivated long ago in the presence of Pete's sexual appetites and partner choices. This version of neutral was one of pleased relief, though only someone close could read that much into it.

Pete just ginned at the others. He'd almost forgotten how Patrick and his flings were mostly just between them. They thought they'd done pretty well at keeping it under wraps, Patrick always ready to cover for Pete, even when he didn't have to. "Heh... Yeah, I forgot to mention that, didn't I?"

Andy shrugged, looking as cool as ever, his eyes hidden behind his shades. "I mean, I guess. We've kinda known for a while now." He looked at Patrick. "Sorry man, but you're a really bad liar."

Joe shrugged amiably. "I mean, we figured y'd say something if it was like, pertinent, or whatever." The guy was so laid back and quietly sardonic, it wasn't hard to believe he'd known for quite some time. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch.

"I guess it was kinda selfish, though..." Patrick admitted. "Sneaking around was a pain, too..." His gaze tilted toward Pete. The affection it held was hard to cover as he chewed his lower lip. "And for that I'm sorry."

Pete scratched at his head, his stupid grin plastered there. He should have realized. His friends weren't dumb or blind. They were bandmates. They lived in close quarters for long periods of time quite often. They were bound to know. "Yeah... guess I should've seen that coming... sorry guys."

"Pfft. It's cool man," Andy said, with a dismissal wave. "We were just waiting for you to be ready, or whatever. If it got in the way of the band, then we’d've brought it up, but," he shrugged, looking at Joe. "We're cool."

"Pretty much," Joe nodded in agreement. "Actually, we kinda thought it _helped_ , y'know?" He elbowed Andy. "Right, dude? Like...y'know some kind of sexual tension vibe thingy..." He wiggled his hand around, still holding his usual deadpan non-expression.

"Thanks," Patrick mumbled, cheeks flushed as red as his hair.

Andy nodded, smiling a bit, showing his agreement with Joe. "Yeah, definitely added something."

Pete wanted to laugh. At least they were being supportive. "Yeah, thanks a lot guys." He pressed Patrick closer to his side, nudging the ginger lovingly with his nose. This was good. This was honestly better than the emo king had thought this discussion would go. He felt bad for not trusting them with it earlier. Shit, he had some serious trust issues. Looking at the Jew and the vegan—two of his best friends in the world—how could he have thought they'd be anything but?

This situation was so welcome, so tension-draining, and so polarized in its difference from his younger days. All the hiding and sneaking and fear that led to breaking Mikey Way's heart—all of that was so far behind him, that with the sweet muffin that was Patrick Stump, Pete could see himself healing and changing what that boy had been entirely. He could never be forgiven, but reconciliation was within grasp.

"Yeah, okay cool, weirdos, but we’re gunna get some coffee and keep watch so you cats can sleep," Joe then moved right on past Pete and Patrick and began going through the ginger's cupboards.

The term "cats" brought Patrick's heart to a standstill. His eyes went wide, pupils contracting and then suddenly dilating with...what was it? Fear? Recollection? "Doctor D..." Patrick whispered. He clutched onto Pete's shirt with a vicelike grip, jaw tight. There was a sudden warmth running down his face—He touched it. "Blood..." He looked up, holding his fingers up for inspection. "What's..." And his eyes rolled back into his head, knees buckling; Patrick went limp with only Pete's arms to hold him up.

Pete was instantly on guard, holding tight to Patrick to keep the ginger from falling strait to the floor. The significance of the word had hit him too, though clearly not as strong as it had hit Patrick. The guy was having a serious nose bleed and Pete was a little afraid the guy was having a stroke or something. "Shit, 'Trick, 'Trick! Talk to me, Pat!!" The singer was still breathing, thank God. Pete didn't know what he'd do if he wasn't.

Joe was right there, instantly, attempting to aid the semi-panicked bassist and passed-out singer. "What the...what's going on...?" He had no way of knowing how or why Patrick would suddenly develop a nosebleed—other than that he was male and men did that sometimes. But the passing out thing was fucking odd. "Help him down, Pete," Joe suggested. He thought the coolness of the kitchen floor would aid conscious reentry, also it would keep blood off Patrick's carpet. Pete of course did as he was told, lowering Patrick to the kitchen floor, trying to be as gentle as possible, as if Patrick was made of china or porcelain or something.

The images swimming behind Patrick's eyes were vague, they were just memories, after all. None of the future events involving the Killjoys—or, in this case and thanks to his and Pete's actions, NOT involving them—would be able to start playing 'til much later...2019, to be exact and it was only 2013. Evidently, the human brain was not made for handling memories that had yet to or would never occur. They were not his own thoughts and his mind rebelled at them.

"Shit..." Pete hissed, terrified as he looked up at Joe and Andy. "We only just got all those memories today... I guess it just... hit Pat hard..." His hand rubbed at the center of his chest, feeling the ache therein, just between his shoulder blades. He couldn't get at his back, but rubbing his chest would have to do. "Can one of you guys get 'em some water?" He didn't want to leave Patrick's side. Not even for a moment.

The skinny Jew man scrambled up to grab a glass. Joe didn't even have to search around for Patrick's dish cupboard. They all spent so much time at his house, it was like home to them as well. While he was filling the glass, Joe wondered if he and Andy would have some weird, fucked-up half memories eventually, too or if that just came with time travel. He sincerely hoped not. Seeing that haunted look in Pete's eyes scared him just a little.

Pete took the glass, giving Joe a mumbled thank you. He didn't want to just pour it in Patrick’s mouth, for fear the ginger would choke on it, but instead propped Patrick up a bit. Just throwing it in Patrick's face crossed his mind, but that was probably a bit extreme. Honestly, just letting Pat sleep might’ve been best. Clearly that's what his body wanted to do, but Pete was afraid that maybe this was something more than just being tired. He wanted to make sure Patrick was okay. So, being the genius he was, he dipped his fingers in the water, set the cup down, and gently bat at Patrick's face, repeating "Patrick. Patrick, wake up, man!"

"Asshole...!" Patrick spluttered after a moment of the swatting. It was rather like being in middle school on a morning when there was condensation on the bus window and some jerkoff thought it was funny to rub his hand on it and swat a sleeping kid's cheek. The red head soon realized where he was, however, and blushed. "Sorry," came the muffled apology. Joe actually laughed aloud with relief.

The moment Patrick was back among the living, Pete's arms were around the ginger, helping him up, seeing if he had a fever or something, wiping away the stray blood from his nose. He looked like a mad man, protecting Patrick like a mother bear. He suddenly felt exhausted and high strung, like everything was a threat and coming after him and the singer. Which was ridiculous, he reasoned to himself. Joe and Andy were here and they were only trying to help.

"C'mon, Pete," the curly haired man said. "Let's get you two up and in bed." He didn't say it, but Pete looked like hammered shit, too. The bassist was clearly holding up better than his companion but would likely soon collapse as well, if given the time.

Andy took a knee behind Patrick, putting a hand on the singer's back and offering the poor fellow the glass of water Pete had set down on the floor. He glanced up at Joe as the fro'd guitarist suggested the two go to bed. "Yeah, seriously... You guys should go lie down. Joe and I can hold the fort."

"Thanks, Andy..." He grunted, taking the water gently and sipping at it. His head was swimming and his stomach was every level of upset.

Pete was helping Patrick up and it was clear he had no intention of letting Joe assist. The guitarist backed off and just...watched. He marveled at the level of protectiveness Pete had developed. The two of them, bassist and vocalist, had always been a package deal. It was Pete who drafted Patrick in the first place and Pete who constantly protected and covered the little guy, from their first stint of friendship and bandship when the ginger was 17 'til now, when Patrick was nearing 30.

"Can you walk?" Pete asked tentatively. He agreed that sleep was the best course of action and was all ready to pick the ginger up bridal style and haul him to the bedroom, but didn't want to embarrass the guy. He'd always had some sliver in him that wanted to keep Patrick safe. He'd been 22 when he met the little chubby 17-year-old with the voice of gold. Obviously, someone had to look out of the guy. But he'd never been so dedicated like this. It was a bit weird and kind of sudden, but... good.

On Patrick's end, it felt damn near perfect to have Pete so close and obviously caring and fighting like hell for him. He'd always known the guy to be subtly protecting him. Even when he was married, Pete Wentz was looking out for the little ginger. Patrick was so timid, so fragile. It was as if all his energy went to that lion's roar of a voice and the rest of his body just tagged along, ready to shatter at any moment. But he felt so much stronger than before...

"Yeah," and he took a deep breath. "Let's...let's go."

Hauling the man to his feet, Pete put an arm around Patrick's waist for support. "Keep an eye out guys," he said to Joe and Andy. "Let us know if anything suspicious happens. Stay on the lookout for black vans." He started out toward the bedroom, keeping the singer tucked gently against his side.

Joe and Andy assured the bassist they would, already looking out the kitchen windows for Courtney Love's ominous black vans. Just for good measure, Andy called after the pair. "And sleep means actually getting sleep, you two!!" They both looked pretty wiped out, but... one could never be too careful with Pete Wentz. The guy had the sex drive of a rabbit. "I better hear nothing but snoring from that room!"

Joe couldn't help chuckling at that last bit. The normally quiet drummer had let them have it, for real. But Joe sobered up quickly. "Guess this Youngblood thing's a lot fuckin' bigger than we thought," Joe turned to Andy as he finally got his damn cup of coffee. "You know how fucked up that all is if it's true?" It wasn't that he didn't believe Patrick and Pete; he just didn't _want_ to.

Andy shrugged, bringing his attention back to the kitchen around him. "I feel you man. This is some serious shit..." If what the other two were saying was true, then they were off the scale of how fucked up this was. It was odd to think that in this weird universe the guys had experienced, both Joe and himself had gotten killed by whatever force they were up against. Pete had been a bit fuzzy on the details of Joe's death, but the way Patrick had looked, it was pretty clear what had happened. Their magic redo button had brought them back, but at what cost? "But I mean... at least we've got a chance, or whatever."

"Amen," Joe resounded, lifting the mug to his lips. Patrick's eyes had been so full of fear, regret and sadness that he couldn't help assuming what had happened in that odd, alternate universe of which Pete had spoken. Whatever it was, it was dark, it was already hurting his friends, and but what scared him most of all was that it was close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. Okay guys, Duchess here. I want to apologize for the delay. Thank you for being so understanding! I had AP exams at the beginning of May, and I just had prom and I'm graduating in a few days and relatives are coming, there's drama, and my mom's buying things for college, and I'm starting a new job, and I'm taking photos and passing out invitations. It's all hectic over here. You very nearly had to wait another month. Shout out to my amazing and patient partner, Hook for bearing with me and helping me get this in on time. I love you all so very much!! Hope you enjoy the chapter and I hope you come back for the next one!  
> ~Duchess


	15. The Kids Aren't Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete and Patrick finally crash after an ordeal that will surely shape their future--for better or worse cannot be said for certain. Meanwhile, Frank and Gerard get reacquainted with desires they're not sure belong to them at first *NSFW* and Joe and Andy come face-to-face with the first of many obstacles. Is everyone going to make it out okay?

“ _And in the end, I'd do it all again; I think you're my best friend.”_

 

~

 

Patrick leaned heavily upon Pete all the way into his dim room. He didn't bother turning a light on, knowing they'd be out to quickly to turn it off. The ginger struggled to stay upright the last few feet and wriggled free of Pete's protective grip in time to crumple to his knees, leaning on the bed. He didn't want to drag his friend along with.

"D-don't freak—" Patrick huffed. "I've got it..."

Pete retracted the arm he’d put out. Perhaps he was being a bit overbearing, but he had good reason. Patrick was still shaken up from whatever had happened in the kitchen and Pete had been given orders. But the dark-haired bassist could feel himself starting pulling apart, trying to shut down. If this is what _he_ was feeling, he was worried how Patrick was doing.

It was so weird; everything seemed to have flipped on its head. Only hours previous, Pete had been sleeping in this same bed, his only worry being whether or not Patrick was gonna try and bring up relationship stuff after a night of Pete drunkenly baring his soul compounded with some senseless, if truly gentle fucking.

Now everything was painted in a black and white, life and death. Being tossed into an alternate time line and beaten within an inch of your life really put things into perspective. Or had that been him at all? Was it the other version of Pete Wentz who had these memories and would this version start to remember them slowly—or would they come all at once and put him on his knees? He waited behind Patrick, not moving away until he was sure the singer could get in bed without his help.

Exhausted, Patrick fairly oozed onto the rumpled sheets. He slipped his glasses off, haphazardly placing them on the side table with a grunt and a moan. This was a familiar spot for his spectacles and from there, they had seen much. He forced himself to perch semi-upright on the bed, wobbly and unstable. The redhead then made a feeble attempt to undress himself, shirt first, of course. If he could at least get that far, he would sleep with relative comfort.

"Here," Pete said, crawling onto the bed behind the ginger. He helped lift Patrick's arms then gingerly slid the black T-shirt up a pale torso and completely off. The bassist couldn’t help the grin as he noticed that it was his shirt that Patrick had been sporting and had been since they'd gotten up. His future self remembered this too. The morning had been so different then…

"...How're you feeling?" he asked quietly, dropping the shirt on the floor.

"Not..." Patrick grunted, "...too good."

He wasn't about to lie to Pete. They'd been through so much together—would go through so much. His nose trickled blood once more and he pinched the bridge, tilting his head back. "Why—why're you not...y'know...getting this?”

He was so confused. If Pete went through it, too, shouldn't he be suffering? Not that Patrick _wanted_ the guy to bleed out of every, or any orifice. The whole thing seemed odd and unfair, though it was definitely to the vocalist's advantage not to have his closest friend and bodyguard losing the warm, red stuff all over the place.

"I dunno," Pete said, grabbing the tissues from Patrick's night stand and offering them to his friend, “but take these. Here."

Pete was putting on a brave front when in truth, his head was throbbing and his back felt as though it was on fire. Every single fiber of his will was ignoring it, focusing on Patrick. His and the ginger's entire relationship had been about Pete, and what the bassist wanted. It was about time Pete gave some of the singer’s undivided attention back to him. There was going to be pain and this was not going to be easy, but it was worthy—it was Patrick.

"Baybe..." Patrick responded, nose plugged by the presence of the tissue, thus confounding the word 'maybe' beyond all recognition. He was overwhelmed, scared and tired, half sure that at any moment, leather-clad women with high ponytails and no tolerance for bullshit—here to be read as “music”—were going to crash through his window. At this point, his brain was half begging for the bed to just swallow him so he could sleep for the rest of eternity. Instead, Patrick let out a terribly pathetic sigh, slumped over and curled up.

"I give up," he grunted. Pete lay himself down next to Patrick, putting out an arm for the singer.

"Get some rest, 'Trick...We'll need it.”

From Patrick’s pained expression and the kitchen blackout, it was crystal clear that his tiny body needed to rest. Pete had a feeling his own wouldn't keep playing nice for much longer, either, if it could be called “nice” at all. He had to shut down at _some_ point, no doubt sooner rather than later.

Patrick turned over and curled into Pete then, covering his face with both hands, one still securing the tissue. He didn't want to deal with blood on his sheets. If he'd thought ahead, he'd have grabbed a towel but...ah well. He was with Pete and he was safe—for now. The thought of the Phoenix kept him awake just a little longer, however.

"Do you think...will this work?" As much experience as he'd suddenly gained from his other self, the miniscule ginger had a monster of fear pricking at him.

The dark-haired bassist nodded, pulling Patrick a little closer to himself. He had his orders, after all. “I do, Patrick.” The singer was like fragile superhero, with Pete as his power and weakness. But for right now, the man had no choice but to be Patrick’s strength. “We can win this.”

And with those few words, Patrick closed his eyes and found rest in Pete’s arms, for the moment, blissful.

For the moment, safe.

~

Gerard couldn’t rest. With Frank still on him, he could hardly help his filthy thoughts about the smaller man. Now that he knew their relationship had started because of Ghoul and Poison, worry was creeping in. Was he just some conduit for the remaining shadow of the teen to take over when Gerard wasn't aware? We're they just feeling through the remains of two horny teenagers? Did Frank even really love him? Did he even love Frank…?

Frank, however, was completely certain these were his own thoughts, his own feelings. He wasn't sure Gerard felt the same, but since they’d both unearthed these feelings, perhaps the emo queen would open up to them. It wasn't like they'd never slept together _because_ of those feelings, right? So the natural progression was, in his mind, to continue.

His thumbs moved in slow circles over Gerard's temples, their foreheads pressed together. Frank Iero was a little guy and fit well in Gerard's lap, hardly pressing down as he supported himself on the cot with strong legs.

“All that 'stage-gay' had to count for something," he whispered, somewhat humorously. This made Gerard smile a bit, remembering all the shit they'd pulled in front of tens of thousands. The number of times he’d kissed the guitarist, stuck his hand down his shirt, or grabbed at his dick was by now bordering on obscene. It was fun, and some nights it'd led to more in the dressing room or hotel afterward.

Okay, most nights.

Frank was right, that couldn't just have been Poison and Ghoul, Gerard had to have been present in that. Perhaps Poison had broken the ground for it, but Gerard was the one who pursued it. He loved Frank Iero, the wiry guitarist who nailed Gee in the balls when he was singing, who broke shit onstage, who played guitar even when he was sick as a dog, who stayed up helping Gerard write lyrics, and who loved Gerard as well.

"It did,” the vocalist mumbled finally.

"I've...I think I've been in love with you all this time, man," Frank whispered, his voice hoarse, husky with feeling. He chewed the side of his lip that wasn't pierced, still fancying he tasted Gerard thereupon. "And I guess...it took dying to realize it."

It was never explicitly discussed between the Young Bloods and the gentlemen of My Chemical Romance. No one ever said “oh, by the way, you guys were dead.” They just knew it. The videos were out; the song and album had been written based around that fact. It was bothersome, but only slightly traumatizing at best. For them, the psychological ordeal was primarily over. And thank god for that.

The space between them closed, suddenly, neither starting it, but just following what they felt. Frank rocked his hips on the other man's lap, holding tight to his best friend in the world. _‘God bless the Phoenix,’_ he thought.

Gerard's headache was temporarily forgotten in the moment as he and Frank were finally coming clean. Poison and Ghoul didn't matter. They were ghosts of a future that could have been, lost in their dreams. This relationship was Frank and Gerard and only them. It took dying in an alternate universe to finally realize what he'd always known and finally do this right, but they were finally here.

"Didn't even see what was right under my nose this whole time... I love you, Frank... I always have and I think always will..." Gee trailed off, moving to press his lips to anywhere he could reach on Frank again.

They kissed hard, with a need both men had always felt. Their lips were connected messily, tongues darting this way and that and Frank's body rolling, grinding his crotch into Gerard's. Gerard tasted so good. He always did, slimy or otherwise.

In the early days of their messing around, his flavor and smell were heavily influenced by the smoke he inhaled. Now that he'd quit, it was more of a natural spice, plus the adrenaline of desperation. The guitarist wanted out of his shirt, his pants, everything, if only to touch Gee's flesh with his own in as many ways as possible. Yeah, he wanted to have sex but it was so much more than just two dudes fucking. The inky-haired man wanted to be close to his friend in as many ways as he could.

And so Gerard pulled Frank close. He needed Frank just as much. He just had to. They needed each other, and that was what drove them. Right then, the emo queen knew he needed Frank more than ever. He needed to feel the guitarist's skin, just to remind himself this wasn't a dream, or a shadowy memory of a could-be future. This was now. This was Frank. This was them. If Poison was still in Gerard, he was probably celebrating in whatever corner he was hiding in, glad that finally Frank and Gerard were opening up everything to each other after so long, finally just letting everything fall into place in a way he had not before dying.

His hand slipped up Frank's shirt, moving slowly, fingers trailing along the man's flesh. His mouth didn't dare part from Frank, the desperation of keeping the tattooed guy close practically palpable between them as Frank's fingers wandered through Gerard's very red hair. He loved this color, probably more than all the others. The guy was so passionate, so alive, so very worthy to wear this color that the guitarist sometimes had trouble picturing him in anything else.

Gerard was inclined to let this particular encounter fall into something that he generally wouldn't do with his fellow bandmates so close by, but as he tugged at Frank's shirt, pulling it up slowly till it was off, he knew where he wanted this to go and was already too far gone to stop.

As Gerard removed his shirt, Frank realized just how badly he wanted this. Of course, it wasn't like they'd never done _this_ before—just perhaps, not with the rest of the band and a whole other band in such proximity. They were relatively classy about it offstage, just hanging on each other like friends do. Onstage was another, message-sending story. But this time was different, Frank could feel it. There was a meaning behind each touch, each breath and gesture. He arched his back, sighing into another kiss. It was like this act had completely changed, despite having done it so many times before. This wasn't just two bandmates hooking up in a dressing room. This was different. It was special, and Gerard liked it much more than any of their previous escapades.

Gerard dared to part his lips from Frank's mouth to move down to his chest, anointing it slowly and purposefully with kisses, pausing to suck lovingly on the guitarist's nipples as he went. His hands caressed the soft flesh, slowly sliding down Frank's back, drawing a breath from Frank as the latter tossed his head back, gasping as quietly as he could manage. He chewed the side of his lip as the heat rose in the pit of his belly. His cheeks were flushed, breath coming quickly. Frank's only consolation was that Gerard was reacting the same way. He squeezed his thighs together ever-so-slightly, to show his appreciation for the action. It was hot and his pants were too damn tight.

But then, what was new there?

The redheaded singer reveled in Frank’s little noises, tongue and hands working diligently to coax out more from him. The heat between them was only increasing, and Gerard found his shirt becoming quite uncomfortable. He leaned away from Frank only long enough to pull it off, discarding it next to Frank's before quickly returning to his dutiful work on the guitarist's soft, tattooed torso.

Gerard knew the guitarist was very proud of all his ink. It meant something to the dark-haired terror, each piece of it. At the same time, Frank couldn't help marveling at his partner's inkless form. Gerard's skin was wonderfully soft, pale and absolutely touchable. He ran his hands all over the other man, anywhere he could reach, including those stiff nipples. Frank gave those a couple of playful tugs before settling down to rolling his thumbs over the nubs.

Finding Frank’s mouth again, Gerard let out soft moans into the steamy kiss. His hands were dancing over the inked birds at the tiny fellow's waistband, playing with the edge of the guitarist's skinny jeans, making purr for him. The man whimpered, instinctively bucking his hips. The little flying creatures were not just birds, they were symbols, better than a name on one's shoulder. The tattooed one knew—or figured—Gerard was aware of what the one on his right hip stood for. Or rather, who.

Once more, his own hands had no place to go but Gerard's beautiful, soft face. And there they stayed as he kissed his best friend, while Gerard's slid from Frank's hips around to grab at his ass. The firm grip forced his hips forward so that his aching erection was pressing at his pants and right up against Gerard's torso, eliciting another moan from the small guitarist and making Gerard bite his lip at the beautiful sound.

Then came Gerard’s least favorite part: Frank's skinny jeans. They were such a bitch to remove. It was a bit of a mood killer when sex was to be had. But they also gave Gerard a pretty good view of the guitarist's package and the shapely curve of his ass. The most annoying bit was having to physically separate to remove them.

"Lemme up—I need outta these," Frank grunted into Gerard's ear, as quietly as he could. He was pressed hard against the pale man's torso in a mock fight—or more like a dance—with the guy. The singer let him go and Frank shifted his hips in order to stand up from the cot. He struggled with his own pants in his eagerness to get them off—and then his gaze strayed to the laundry room. It wouldn't have been prudent or polite to just fuck in here, not five feet from where Mikey Way and Ray were dead asleep.

"Sst, Gerard," Frank hissed, jerking his head that way. "C'mon."

As the redhead stood, he shucked his pants, viciously kicking them aside in favor of a more comfortable state: nude. He’d had the same reservations, as it was more than a little weird to get it on with your baby brother right there next to you.

But Gerard couldn’t help smiling as he looked over, seeing Ray so close to his dear, sweet Mikey. He'd had his suspicions, of course—the prolonged glances and sweet smiles from both of them did not pass the elder Way unnoticed—but he had more important things to focus on at the moment, and all of those things consisted of the short, tattooed terror that was Frank Iero.

Total wild card he was, but Frank was a dream when nearly-naked. He dropped to his knees momentarily to dig around in his discarded pants pockets, then his jacket and other garments for protection—and lube, too. This wasn't something you did dry, that was for fucking sure—not with how big he knew Gerard was.

Gerard wanted to laugh. Frank clearly had had plans when they'd gotten zapped into whatever dimension. But Frank was always ready. He was a horny little fellow and being around Gerard did not change this. In fact, he was fairly certain his best friend made it worse. Either way, they were just glad Frank had something. It was better than having to ask Patrick. That would’ve been a nightmare. The vocalist didn't doubt their host _had_ some of both, but the guy was so sweet, seemed so innocent. It would have been in bad form.

Somehow, Frank managed to produce a little bottle of lube—good lord where had that been?—and actually two condoms. He raised a brow at the pair and then grinned up at Gerard who threw his hands up in a silent "yay!" Frank grinned at Gerard and his ridiculousness, but said nothing and once more jerked his head toward the laundry room.

It felt a bit weird, knowing they were about to fuck in Patrick's laundry room, but as long as they were quiet, maybe the ginger wouldn't have to find out. They knew their bandmates wouldn't be telling.

The two breathless, unclothed men barely had the door closed when Gerard grabbed the guitarist and pulled him back in again, not wanting to be apart from his partner for long. Frank wasn't about to fight this. The items he'd been holding fell out of his hands upon impact as he felt his back hit cold cinder block. With a gasp, Frank wrapped his arms tightly around Gerard, just holding him. His hands didn't wander for now because he felt as though he might lose the other man if he did anything but keep him in a vice. Gerard and Frank played with time. At one moment they moved slowly, passionately, taking time to put and feel the love behind every motion. At another they'd tear at each other like beasts. Sometimes they'd play with both, biting one minute, slowly anointing each other with kisses the next. They'd played along almost all parts of the spectrum. But now, they remained in slow motion, love and desperation put into every kiss and touch. Gerard was trying like mad to show Frank he wanted him, that he needed him, and that above all that he loved him.

Frank leaned back, letting Gerard do what he wanted. Frank danced along with the extreme redhead's rhythm, knowing that his partner was an expert and cared more for him than his own life. Then again, he could easily say the same. When he'd said onstage that he loved Gerard and would take a bullet for him, he was not kidding. In fact, some part of him reminded the guitarist that he already _had_ —or...part of him had. It was odd, holding the memories of a strange version of yourself. In some weird twist of fate, the hazy, dreamlike memories from Poison and Ghoul had led Gerard and Frank together, but Poison and Ghoul had come together in part from their hazy memories from Gerard and Frank. They couldn't be one without the other. And here they were, locked together with no desire to part.

Their mouths continued to clash as their bodies met with heat and desperation. Locked in the embrace, Gerard's hands began to wander down the other man's tatted torso, til they came to pause, playing with the elastic strap of Frank's underwear. The smaller man wanted nothing more than to be free of his undergarments and bucked his hips forward to show his approval. He was scoping out good places to actually _do_ this and the washer and dryer seemed like the safest way to go—else they could just go at it on the floor. The concrete might be a bit unforgiving, however.

Frank had very little time to concentrate on anything as Gerard started grinding on the guitarist’s hips and leave biting kisses on Frank’s neck. The smaller man whined pathetically, hands gripping tight to Gerard’s red locks and neck. This only encouraged the vocalist further, his hand sliding between him and Frank, grabbing the tiny man’s hard cock through the underwear. A full gasp escaped Frank’s lips and Gerard couldn’t hold back a laugh. Frank was easily Gerard’s favorite plaything.

“I swear to god, Gerard,” Frank huffed, a bit breathless, but leaving his threat unfinished as the singer stopped playing and began removing the other man’s undies. Normally, he would’ve done it achingly slow, kissing Frank’s entire body as he went, but time was not on their side in this moment. Honestly, with their physical condition, sex was probably a terrible idea, but they were so beyond stopping at this point. Instead, Gerard dropped to his knees, pulling Frank’s last remaining scrap of clothing off and discarding them behind him with very little ceremony.

And, well, since he was down there anyways…

“ _Fuck_ ,” Frank hissed as Gerard’s mouth slid around his cock with ease. The man had a talented tongue and he knew exactly what he was doing. From under dark eyelashes, he watched Frank writhe and bite his knuckle, trying not to make noises that would wake the others in the room next to them. Granted, those next to them were in such a deep sleep that they probably wouldn’t have awoken anyway, but it was more of a courtesy thing. Besides, Frank’s shouting might’ve brought their guardians upstairs down, fearing more time travel aftershocks. Talk about awkward.

Gerard pulled off Frank then, leaving a chaste kiss on the head of the man’s dick before getting to his feet. The gesture was loving, full of adoration. 

“C’mon,” Gerard cooed, wrapping an arm around his hard and flushed partner, pulling him away from the hard wall.

“Washing machine,” Frank managed, as he got his breath and the previously discarded condom and lube back from where he’d dropped it. Gerard was eager, no one could deny that.

Once Frank climbed atop the washing machine, without a word, Gerard snatched the supplies from Frank’s hand and removed his own boxer-briefs in a very unceremonious manner. As Gerard put on the condom and applied a generous amount of lube, Frank couldn’t help but wrap his hand around his own dick and give himself a few quick pumps as he watched the redhead.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Frank teased, giving the other man his world famous shit-eating grin.

“Fuck you,” Gerard laughed, throwing away the condom wrapper and moving his hands along Frank’s thighs.

Beaming like a fool, Frank just lifted his legs up for Gerard and said, “That’s kind of the idea.” To this Gerard just rolled his eyes, unable to remove his smile for the proper level of sarcasm.

Again, had they more time, Gerard might’ve teased him and drawn it out, made him beg. But damn it, this was too urgent. They didn’t have time to play. Gerard barely asked Frank if he was ready before sticking two fingers into Frank’s hole, making the man gasp and wince at the intrusion. It hurt, but the stretching was necessary.

And stretch he did. Frank sat atop the washing machine, leaning languidly back as Gerard worked two fingers in and out, and then three fingers, and even four. Each time, Gerard would wait after adding another digit, letting Frank adjust, crooking his fingers to hit the smaller man’s prostate, eliciting small yips from his dear partner.

“Noisy little thing, aren’t you?” Gerard teased, breathing the words into Frank’s ear as he stole a kiss from Frank’s lips. Well, perhaps steal wasn't the word. Frank wanted to give Gerard everything he had and a couple of kisses was nothing compared to what was coming.

“Oh baby, don’t get me started,” Frank muttered, just managing to get it out before Gerard pressed his prostate again and all Frank’s words just turned into small incoherent sounds. The redhead couldn’t deny, the way a simple touch from his talented fingers could draw out Frank’s voice was practically addicting. Every squeak and moan that Frank let out when straight to Gerard’s dick. Fuck, he wanted to be inside Frank so bad. He was starting to feel dizzy with anticipation. Of course, that could just have been his headache from time traveling and shit coming back to fuck him up, but that was all the more reason to move along.

Gerard pulled his fingers out then, the absence of which Frank protested with a whine.

“Shh,” the redhead coaxed, brushing some of Frank’s hair out of his face with his other hand. “It’s about to get even better…”

And Gerard didn’t lie. He gripped his cock and pressed the head against Frank's slick hole. As Gerard slowly pushed in, Frank bit his lip whilst his ass was delightfully filled with the redhead's cock. It hurt, yeah, but Frank knew he’d be seeing stars before too long. The singer was well aware of how to make the pain worth it. He worked himself in slowly, making sure Frank was ready, completely and 100% okay with continuing before moving.

“Go on,” whispered the guitarist. Gerard obliged, starting slowly at first and watching his friend carefully to gauge the pain he knew Frank wouldn't mention.

Soon, grunts and squeaks turned into sighs and moans as Frank finally adjusted to the intrusion as Gerard started thrusting deeper and harder, lifting Frank’s legs back for a better angle. The redhead reached around, grabbing at Frank’s ass and pulling him in tight and snapping his hips, earning fabulous yelps from Frank before he slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Come on, baby,” Gerard breathed, right into Frank’s ear. He wasn’t going to last much longer, not with the exhaustion he and Frank were both holding back. They’d be lucky if they were able to make it back to their cots before passing out, and it would be a miracle to get their clothes back on before they crashed, but it was impossible to think about that kind of thing as Frank start gasping and grasping at Gerard’s back.

“Oh! Oh, fuck, _fuck,_ ” he hissed as the redhead continued thrusting into him through the orgasm and he came between them in a most ungraceful manner that Gerard absolutely adored. It didn’t take much longer before Gerard was following the tiny terror over the edge, coming with a series of gasps before practically falling over on top of Frank with a sigh.

“Shit,” Frank got out, followed by a series of breathy giggles that he couldn’t contain or control. Of course, Frank’s giggles were highly contagious and soon, the two were exchanging sloppy, tired kisses in between oddly high pitched giggles.

Neither wanted to move away from the other nor move in general. It was like their pain was a T-Rex. If they just didn’t move, maybe it couldn’t find them.

But alas, there it was, done with hovering behind their eyes and starting to seep into their veins. With a sigh, Gerard pulled out of Frank and tied off the condom, venturing away to find Patrick’s garbage can while Frank snatched a rag from the cabinet above the machines to clean up their mess. Already, sleep was pulling at Frank’s eyelids and he knew if they didn’t get back to the cots soon, it would probably be too late. His body was on its way out, and honestly, he was getting real sick of fighting it.

“Hey, dude,” Gerard called. He’d found some of Patrick’s clean laundry, still on the folding table, including a few pairs of sweat pants and pajama pants. “Better than skinny jeans,” he offered, to which Frank gave a small smile, regarding the pants with little more than raised eye rows, too tired to do much else in response. The sentiment echoed in all of Gerard’s limbs, but he just wasn’t done yet.

“Here,” the red head said, coming up to his partner and helping the exhausted man into the soft, cotton bottoms. Frank mumbled a quiet thanks as Gerard slipped on his own pair.

Once decently clothed, all that was between them and sleep was a door and a cot. With arms pathetically wrapped around the other, they ventured out of the laundry room and back to the main area. Mikey and Ray were still blissfully unconscious and the final two members of My Chem had all plans of following suit.

Gerard practically fell onto his cot. Once horizontal, his body quickly shut down. Frank slid in easily next to him, fitting against his body as though he'd been made for just such a place. His eyelids stayed open just long enough for him to place a tiny kiss on his partner’s forehead. A small thank you for everything in their world that they had built together. It was all he could manage before all the switches in his head changed to off and both fell into sleep as easily as falling off a building.

 

~

 

The whole thing seemed utterly insane to Joe, who found himself pacing relentlessly across Patrick's kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth he went until Andy had to stand up and physically guide the curly-haired man to a seat with a quiet:

“Please. You're making me dizzy.”

“But do you really think they'd come today? I mean—shit, I believe all that stuff...got a weird kink in my neck....” Joe rolled his head on slim shoulders and ran his free hand—the one that wasn't white-knuckle grasping the coffee mug—over the pale flesh of his throat. Andy shrugged, keeping his eyes out the window.

“Do you think it'll affect us?” Andy asked, voice distant. “I mean...whatever it is.”

“No,” Joe responded, having already decided how this whole time travel thing was going to work despite not having experienced it himself. “Well I think it won't...”

Andy leaned in, eager to hear what his friend had to say and also glad Joe was no longer pacing and potentially wearing a hole in Patrick Stump's lovely, maple flooring. He gave a nod that suggested Joe ought to continue speaking.

“Pete said they met themselves, right?” To this, Andy gave another nod. “Well, we didn't...did we?” Andy, ever the patron saint of patience, shook his head and mouthed a no. “Maybe that's what set off the.... whatever happened to Patrick earlier. Pete's just handling it better or something. But, okay this is a little crazy—“

“Yeah, weirdest thing I've heard all day probably.”

Joe's blue eyes narrowed at his friend's sharp, sardonic commentary. He supposed that was why they all loved Andy. He was a sweet guy, really soft-spoken and gentle, but boy did he have a razor for a sense of humor.

“Their time lines crossed, okay? Pete meets himself from the past—err future and Patrick meets _himself_?” The coffee mug rises to his lips, temporarily quieting Joe's wild, if accurate, science session. “You and I both know we'd have met ourselves if we made it in their time line, so we obviously didn't. If we had, we'd both be losing our shit like those two...so maybe it's...”

“For the best?” Andy supplied helpfully. Joe nodded, unable to argue with the way his sentence had been finished. It was scary, no, terrifying, to know that in some outcome of what was currently happening, you died in some horribly unspeakable way, so he spent no more thought thereupon and instead focused on what was at hand.

They had no choice but to keep vigilant. Courtney Love's goons were out there, waiting for them. Pete had been _dating_ one of them. No telling where _she_ was now. No. Now was the time to steel themselves for the worst. At least one outcome was ugly enough to send two of them back to stop it—or forward to prevent it... or something? To fix it? He shook his head and groaned.

“...shit's fucked,” Joe hissed to no one in particular. Andy couldn't help agreeing.

As the day wore on and morning became afternoon, cars actually started to pass Patrick's home. Andy had positioned himself near the back, glass doors and Joe was near the large window in their friend's front room. They were within shouting distance of everyone and, if Joe craned his neck, he could see Andy.

“Black vans,” Joe reminded his friend, “or babes in leather, I guess.”

Andy nodded, though his companion was not within sight range. To that end, he grunted assent and continued to gaze steadily out into Patrick's lovely back yard. Something told him they would not attack in broad daylight, with the Young Blood's defenses on high alert. He didn't know how _much_ Courtney Love knew about them, but the drummer had a feeling her surveillance was relatively thorough.

“Anything?” Joe called after a while. He'd picked up a book and was sort of skimming it to pass the time.

“Nope,” came the response. Good. They really couldn't afford to take a hit just now, not with everyone coming apart at the seams. All was quiet, however. For once, they were catching a break. Joe crossed his fingers that it would last. Andy had a calmer outlook on the whole thing, but of course wished no ill on their friends.

A sedan pulled up to the front presently and Joe hissed a warning to his companion in the other room. Andy was on his feet, out of sight from the front and back doors, fists clenched. He was a gentle guy, but if something threatened his crew, Andy Hurley had capacity for great ugliness.

“It's Monica, Pete's girl,” Joe whispered, “did he say anything about her?”

All at once, Pete himself burst, bleary-eyed out from the back hallway. He looked like a panicked animal and scrambled haphazardly toward Joe and the front door.

“I heard—heard the car,” he stammered, “slept a while, couldn't...keep sleeping, but...d-don't let 'er in.”

Joe grabbed Pete's shoulders to support him and forced the man down into a chair near the front foyer. He fixed their front man with his most meaningful look of reassurance and nodded.

“Whatever you say, Pete; it's been a hell of a day and I'm inclined to believe you,” Joe said, keeping his voice soft so as not to spook the bassist. Pete finally nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Everything okay?” Andy asked, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen. Joe nodded.

“Take Pete back to his—err Patrick's room, alright?” Joe instructed. “I'll handle Monica.”

She was making her way up the familiar front steps of Pete's best friend's house. More than once, she'd driven here to pick her hungover boyfriend up after a night at the ginger's. Strangely, she'd never complained about Pete's escapades, never once questioned what he'd been up to. Maybe the lack of jealousy for a situation that was obviously _not_ platonic should have been Pete's first clue that she was no good, but he liked to see the light in people.

Then again, he _had_ kind of been cheating.

“Monica!” Joe greeted, opening the door with a painfully wide smile.

“Joe...right?” She'd only been seeing Pete a few months, so his friends—famous as they might have been—were supposed to be a bit of a mystery to her. She was well-trained. Joe knew instantly that she had an entire dossier on all of them in that blonde head of hers and was more than willing to use it. Something about the predatory way she looked at him rubbed the Jewish guitarist the wrong way entirely.

“Yeah, that's me,” he only opened the door for her when Pete and Andy were completely out of sight. Down the hall, the drummer was just ushering his friend back into the dark room where Patrick was snoring softly. He hissed to Pete that he should be quiet and then shut the door behind him, keeping his re-entry into the living room area nearly silent. It was better that she didn't know everyone was here, right?

“Where's...ah, this is embarrassing,” she chuckled, biting a full lower lip—a tactic she'd been taught to do to mimic Patrick, who's constant habit of sucking and biting his own plump lower lip had snared Pete more than once.

“You're looking for Pete,” he chuckled in an 'I know how that goes' sort of way, “but I am sad to say he's not actually _here_ , for once.”

She looked him up and down, taking complete stock of the lanky guitarist. Her response was a sigh, which sounded annoyed, but not at the proper source. The sigh of a girlfriend whose man was constantly taking off and hanging with his bro was different than the condescending sigh of someone who _knows_ the other party is lying. She knew exactly where Pete was and by the way her body tensed, Joe could tell—if a bit too late—that she was going to get the information from him by force, if she had to.

“Could you... text him for me? I left my phone at home; I was so worried,” she pleaded.

“Sure,” he replied. “C'mon in. Mine's in the kitchen.”

He was going to lead her past the back hallway and pray that Andy was in place and would do something before _he_ had to try. Those heels of hers looked like they'd end up in his back hurt all the way down. If what Pete said was true, these bitches meant business.

He felt her eyes on his back like pin pricks, waiting for him to let his guard down. Joe wasn't facing her, but she could obviously tell when he was paying attention. The tenseness in the air was palpable, especially as they passed the hallway where Andy was back a few feet, hidden in shadows, waiting to take her out.

Everything after happened so quickly, neither Andy nor Joe would be able to later recall what precisely transpired. Monica—or whatever her name was—dropped low and swept the guitarist's legs out from under him. Joe went crashing sideways and she shifted to leap on top of him. At that exact second, however, Andy chose to reveal himself.

He was not a man prone to violence. In fact, the very thought was abhorrent to Andy Hurley; he was a strict pacifist. Upon presentation of a clear and present danger to Joe, however, those powerful muscles Andy mostly used for drumming and gaining more powerful muscles sprang into action and he took Monica out at the waist, tumbling into Patrick's living room while Joe crawled away to recover.

As soon as the skinny fellow was back on his feet, he was hissing orders at the writhing mass of Andy and Monica. She struck the drummer, who grunted and tried his best to restrain her without having to actually hit back.

“Keep it down!” Joe's voice was a harsh whisper. Andy nodded and hissed back.

“I'm trying!” And he clapped a hand over her mouth before she could shriek and awaken the whole house—or worse, alert backup that could be anywhere.

There had to be something around Patrick's well-equipped house that could restrain the wild banshee even Andy's strength was having trouble restraining. He jerked her around a little bit to let her know he meant business, but a cruel laugh escaped the cracks where his hand could not cover. Of course Monica knew he would never _hit_ her, so she was at least safe from him. Joe was another story. The man's pale blue eyes were half-panic and half...something much more dangerous.

The guitarist ducked out of the living room and went racing through the kitchen to the garage. He figured if there were bungee cords or ropes anywhere in this house, it would be there. Flicking the light on as he went, the man immediately zeroed in on a tool box sitting on a long bench. Rope and a chair would to it, then it would be down the basement with her while they waited to figure out what to actually _do_.

Joe felt the blood drain from his face as he realized his first thought had literally been murder. It would be easier to deal with her if she was dead, then there'd be one less leather-clad goon babe hunting them down. But what good would that do in the end? Something told him that these gals weren't exactly doing this of their own free will, not entirely, anyway.

He harshly reminded himself that there were other things to worry about at that moment and set about digging through Patrick's organized tool box and drawers for anything that could restrain a human being. Bungee cords, chain, rope, binder twine, any of it, all of it. He just needed _something_.

Joe came up a bit short of all that stuff, but managed to find—of all things—a clothes line still in the packaging. Good. At least it was new. The cotton would be a bit slippery but if it was tied tightly enough, she wouldn't go anywhere. He raced back into the house gripping his metaphorical and now physical lifeline. Just as he entered the kitchen, he heard what sounded like a pained grunt from Andy.

Time was short.

Joe tore into the rope and loosed it from its coil, rounding the corner into the living room where Andy's arm was trapped in Monica's jaws and she was biting down, hard.

“Joe!” Andy hissed. He didn't cry for help, or give specific instructions, so his companion had to figure out what to do on his own. Joe's first thought was, again, harmful. Instead of grasping the nearest lamp and beating her with it—she was now laying atop Andy, belly up, partially trapped—he went for the less lethal option of stooping quickly and bopping her on the nose. She let out a muffled squeak and loosened her grip, just enough to allow Joe to slide the rope into her jaw, rather like floss, or in this case, a gag.

The movement forced her chin upward and brought those painted nails clawing up toward Joe's face. Momentarily, Monica's concentration was off Andy. The drummer was able to wriggle his way out form under her and check his arm for punctures, but this left Joe to try and hold her down with only a cotton rope. And that would not last.

She sprang up and tackled Joe, straddling his ribcage and trying to gouge out his eyes. He squeezed those baby blues shut and shoved with all his might as the cord was now over her throat. His long arms allowed Joe to keep Monica's claws at bay, but it wouldn't last long. Andy forced himself up and over toward the continued struggle. Someone was sure to wake up to this garbage if he didn't do something.

Wrapping a powerful, inked arm around Monica's throat, he hauled her upward with great force, choking her out and blurring the violent aggressor's vision. The relief of pressure signaled Joe to open his eyes and react. He dropped to his knees and performed an expert-level knot around her thin ankles.

Andy released Monica at the same moment Joe gave his knot a test tug. She went down with a thud, the back of her head hitting Patrick's carpeted, living room floor with a loud thud. The sound killer was out cold, but the rest of the house was fully awake and on high alert. Gerard was the first to reach the scene, olive eyes wide and cheeks pale.

“ _What_ is going on?!”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie Meyer was right, fight scenes are difficult to put to pen. Yet somehow I managed. How curious. This is the first almost purely raw chapters you guys will be experiencing as we wrap this epic tale up as succinctly and with as much explanation as is necessary for this sort of thing. After this, it's all out of our heads, no RP from which to draw, simply raw, freshly-written text. We hope you'll stick with us the rest of the way.


	16. It's Not A Fashion Statement, It's A Fucking Death Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of a respite, decisions have to be made, specifically about the woman tied in a chair. However, making those choices is harder than it seems. Especially when people seem to be falling apart left and right.

_“I’m coming back from the dead and I’ll take you home with me. I’m taking back the life you stole.”_

_~_

“What the _fuck_ are we supposed to do with _her_?” Frank hissed, gesturing the woman in question, who glared at everyone present from behind dark lashes and winged eyeliner. If looks could kill, all of the young bloods would be dead three times over. As things stood, she was tied tightly to a sturdy chair and gagged for good measure.

After the struggle upstairs, the boys from My Chem had been rousted from their slumber as Andy and Joe hauled the woman down into the basement. After a brief summery of the situation, they were all standing around, looking at her and contemplating their painfully limited options.

“We can’t kill her,” Gerard said, eliciting nods from the others. The thought had crossed each of their minds, of course, but no one was going to follow through. While the Killjoys had been sworn to protect and born to kill, the boys of My Chem were different. They hadn’t reached that point yet, and hopefully never would.  Which led them back to the main question of what to do with Monica.

“I can’t believe Pete was dating this chick,” Frank said.

Andy just shrugged, while responding, “I can.”

“He probably didn’t know she was gonna try and kill him,” Mikey added, drowsiness still heavy on his tone and expression. “Just guessing.”

“Okay,” Joe raised his arms in an attempt to bring everyone back to the topic at hand. “Pete’s dating habits aside, what are we gonna do with this bitch?”

And silence again. It was easier to decide what they _weren’t_ going to do, since not doing something is so easy. And so their Young Blood vs. Monica staring contest went on.

“We… could try and get some information out of her?” Frank offered, his suggestion sounding more like a question. “I mean… I’m not saying like we torture her or anything, but… She’s gotta know something that could help.”

He wasn’t wrong, and the others nodded acknowledging that, but again, they were stuck. She obviously wasn’t going to be offering anything and none of them were too eager to torture someone in Patrick’s basement. They weren’t killers or psychopaths, they were musicians! This Young Blood shit was clearly going to ask for a bit of stepping up to the plate. But this wasn’t a plate to which anyone was sure they wanted to step up.

“We need to make a choice,” Andy said, turning to face his compatriots, distressed behind his dark Ray Ban sunglasses. “She’s gotta answer to someone, and if she just suddenly disappears like this, people are gonna start asking questions and we’re gonna have a shit ton more problems facing us than just one chick.”

Of course, Andy was right, but no one had any answers to give him. Instead they just watched those murderous ice blue eyes glaring at them. She wasn’t struggling against her binds or squawking insults behind her gag. She was just sitting. Watching. Resting.

“…I can’t think of anything with her glaring at me,” Ray finally said, squirming under her gaze. A chorus of ‘yea’s emanated from the group and a unanimous decision to retreat back upstairs was made. Joe offered to stay downstairs to watch Monica, just in case.

Flopping down on various couches, however, the first thing on everyone’s mind was not the woman in the basement, but the hunger that was making itself known.  Andy, at a lack of knowing his way through Patrick’s kitchen did the next best thing just decided to order a bunch of pizzas. Things looked relatively normal enough that they could dare to let an outside human being come. Besides, they’d have pizza.

In the meantime, he offered them all granola bars and tried to get them all to focus on the problem that was Monica.

“She’s got insight on this whole… models with machete’s thing,” Gerard offered, already on his third granola bar. “She could be a valuable asset, even if just for like… I dunno, as a trade off.”

“Trade off to who?” came his brothers rebuttal, to which the singer just gestured wildly and shrugged.

“I don’t fuckin' know, Mikey,” he sighed, just completely exasperated.  “The nebulous evil figure that’s trying to kill us and is probably laughing at us right now!” Mikey recoiled at Gerard’s agitated verbal lashing, making the singer realize what exactly he’d said. “’m sorry, Mikes,” he apologized,

“It’s fine,” the bassist assured his brother, flashing a brief half smile. The singer’s point wasn’t completely wrong, and it was as good an idea as any so far.  So far, the only obvious conclusion before them was that they couldn’t kill Monica, but they couldn’t let her go. Everything else was a guess. Thank God pizza showed up before too long. They all needed a food break.

Silence reigned the room as the hungry musicians devoured the warm food set before them. Oh, to the hungry, time traveling boys of My Chem, the pizza didn’t even stand a chance of survival. It just couldn’t last. Which was all well and good, as Andy wasn’t planning to partake and had already brought a few slices down to Joe, who was still standing sentry by their captive super model.  The only ones who would be offended at missing this oddly 2005 reminiscent emo pizza party were fast asleep in Patrick’s room.

Or at least, they had been. Until Patrick came rushing in, terror embedded in his eyes.

“Guys. I-I… I don’t… It’s Pete, please you guys someone’s gotta—I don’t know how...”

Andy was at his side in a flash, just in case Patrick fell over again. “I’m here dude, what’s going on?”

“Pete,” Patrick repeated, trying to find words. “h-he’s… not breathing.”

~

Pete had slept for only a few minutes when flashes of memories started coming back to him. Bed with Monica. Patrick’s hand in a bag. Going to the roof. Warning his friends. Monica stabbing him in the neck. He woke up sweating, heart pounding, terrified and shaking. Andy and Joe needed to know, and he’d gotten there in time, but his body was done being passive, pulling at him and his vision. The halls were swirling and moving. God, it was the world’s worst hangover times a million. If it hadn’t been for Andy, he wouldn’t have made it back to the room, much less his side of the bed.

But peaceful sleep just wouldn’t find him. Not when mammoth-sized painful memories started to flow into his brain. Fighting, running, shots to the chest, Any strength he’d had was nothing compared to the slamming pain of these images and things that hadn’t happened, and yet had.

It was like every wound he’d had was opening again, burning, searing, bleeding, and he didn’t even have the strength left to scream in pain.

Oh, how he wanted to sleep. He wanted to die. He wanted this pain to go away. He wanted relief from this terrible nightmare. His friends were dead. He was bleeding. Patrick. But it wasn’t Patrick. Patrick was trying to kill him, chasing after him. Pete was shot. Something was tearing through him. This pain. This pain was too much.

And then something bright appeared above him, out of the middle of the barrage of memories, drowning out the pain ever so slightly. Pete reached to it, soaking in the sweet relief the light offered. Oh, it was so close and so soft.

**_THUD_ **

A blunt, heavy pounding hit his chest, startling him, knocking him down from the light. No, no, no, he was falling away, back towards the pain, back towards those memories. No, they scared him, he couldn’t go back, no, no, **_no_**!!

**_THUD, THUD_ **

Pete’s eyes opened as he gasped for air like he’d underwater for years. His hand flew to his chest, as if his shaking appendage could keep his heart from flying out of his chest. Patrick was on one side of him and Andy on the other, holding onto the bassist, talking, but Pete couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart.

“What the fuck…,” he muttered, not feeling rested at all, with his headache worse than ever. There was truly no rest for the wicked. Not even the wickedly handsome.

Slowly, Andy’s voice came into focus from the haze around his ears.  “…you hear me? …Buddy, you gotta answer me man. Can you hear me?”

The man nodded, taking deep breaths. “Yeah,” he cracked, looking at his hands and his lap. Fuck, it felt like he’d been run over by a train and large army of horses with grudges.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice slightly cracked as he tried to speak. “What happened…?”

“Pete… you weren’t breathing,” Patrick said, absolute terror stuck in his voice. “We thought… you were dead…” The singer voiced the sentence so quiet, he barely said the words at all.  It didn’t make them any less true however.

The bassist looked at Patrick, confusion and fear the only things he could conceive at hearing the singer’s declaration. He didn’t remember dying… he remembered pain, so much pain… and a white light…

Fucking hell, he’d nearly gone into it.

“But I’m not,” he said, stating perhaps the most obvious fact of the day. Clearly, his skills of observation had not been damaged by his near death experience.

“Thanks to me,” Andy said with a gentle nudge, partially out of desire for recognition and a need to make sure Pete was 100% with them. “I kinda… beat your chest until it kick started your heart.” Only Andy Fucking Hurley…  “Sorry about that, if I hurt you.”

His hand was still on Pete’s shoulder, looking the man over, watching for any sign Pete was going to shut down again. He was looking for the usual, blood from the eyes or ears, or glossy eyes… For the moment, the bassist, while looking exhausted, was present, mind and body.

“Dude,” Pete said, smiling for the first time since trying to sleep. “You fucking saved my life... You could’ve broken my ribs and I wouldn’t care.”

It was a good enough answer for the drummer, who cracked a smile and patted Pete on the back a few times. “Lemme grab you some pizza, dude.” And with that, he left the poor man to just breathe.

Patrick, however, wasn’t going anywhere.

“What happened?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. Pete leaned into Patrick’s gentle hand, glad for the sensory stimuli to ground him from the nasty headache that was still eating away at him and his chest throbbing with physical and distant pain.

“I dunno, ‘Trick,” responded Pete, turning honest and fearful eyes to his friend. “I… I honestly don’t. I… went to sleep and these memories and this pain… it just…”

He’d died. He’d fucking almost died right here in Patrick’s bed. Jesus Fuck that would’ve… been terrible and embarrassing and…

“But I’m not dead,” Pete declared, his voice finally sounding somewhat stronger. His hand slid seamlessly into Patrick’s with a squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere, I promised.”

The ginger met those hot whiskey eyes, plagued with fear and exhaustion. He’d seen Pete lie before and he knew this was different. A small smile surfaced on the singer’s lips. “Alright… Just don’t scare me like that, okay?”

To this, the bassist nodded, his dumb, dopy, dog grin returning happily. “I promise.”

“Dinner is served,” Andy said, cutting off any chance for the two to kiss in private, so they had to settle for a short one in public. “C’mon you two, eat something. You guys need to hydrate and consume. I’m not letting either of you faint or die on me today, got that?”

“Yes sir,” Pete saluted, happily making a pizza sandwich by stacking the slices atop each other and eating them at once. It seemed almost… normal.

It all did for an hour or so. Once Pete felt good enough to be on his feet, he walked out with Patrick to talk to the other guys. They were picking the corpses of the pizza boxes, making sure no dropped toppings had gone missing, when the two emerged. Instantly, brainless chatter was started. Have you heard this new track? What’s so and so doing now? Did you see that trailer for the new spider man? Why another spider man? There are so many better heroes than spider man. New York’s not even that cool (between Chicago boys and New Jersey boys, the New York trash talk lasted a fair while). Yes, the life and death stuff still had to be talked about, but while Patrick was making whipping up a pot of Mac n Cheese, it was nice to talk about something other than time travel, deadly models, and sound killers.

“You guys are bottomless pits,” Andy chided as the Mac n Cheese Patrick provided was also steadily devoured by the semi-less tired time travelers. No one had a response for him as they were all too busy consuming.

Frank, however, managed to spare enough attention to flip Andy off as he refilled his bowl of cheesy goodness. But once the food had been consumed, there was nothing else to do but to get down to business.

“Monica,” Gerard explained, “is in the basement. We got her tied up, but… we need to decide what to do with her.”  
“Monica?” Patrick asked. “Monica, as in Pete’s girlfriend, Monica?” The others nodded as the ginger silently contemplated the woman, his mouth open ever so slightly. “…You know, that doesn’t really surprise me.”

“Yeah,” Pete muttered, clearly not as amused as the singer. But of course, Monica had never liked Patrick, and despite his best efforts, Patrick had never liked Monica, which was saying something. After all of Pete’s on and offness with that girl, he should’ve realized something was wrong. She was too perfect sometimes, too well timed. If he’d just opened his eyes… “Man, fuck that girl.”

“Well, she tried to kill me and Joe, so we’ve got her tied up downstairs.” Andy stated, more annoyed than offended by the whole ordeal.

“We’ve just been trying to decide what to do with her,” Ray concluded, offering a half smile as he set his now-empty bowl back on the table.

Well, the combined brainpower wasn’t doing too much to help. Or so it seemed. As Patrick shrugged, loosely gesturing and silently making shapes with his mouth, Pete was having an apparently intense staring contest with the floor.

“Pete…?”

The staring continued for only a few seconds longer before the bassist finally looked up. “...I want to talk to her.”

~

Joe happily sat across from the woman, finishing off the last of his pizza. The death glare was nothing new by now and it wasn’t like Monica was going to suddenly get up and go somewhere. Babysitting their “prisoner” was probably the easiest job he’d had so far throughout all this Young Blood shit.

When the door to the stairs opened, Pete was not the person Joe was expecting, and yet, there he was. He looked like absolute garbage that had been run over quite a few times, but all-consuming rage and determination were simmering on that brow as well. The bassist meant business.

“Hey,” he offered, tossing his paper plate and standing to meet his band mate.

“Hey,” came the much less enthusiastic response of the time traveler. “I… want a minute with her, if I could.”

The curly haired guitarist nodded. “Yeah, sure man. Just shout when you’re done, I’ll come back.”

“Got it.”

And with that, Pete grabbed the chair Joe had been sitting on and hauled it to sit right across from Monica, barely a foot away from her. No, he had things to say, and he was going to say them now. First things first, that gag had to go. If he was going to have this conversation, he wanted answers. But of course, Pete wasn’t an idiot.

“If you scream, the only ones who will hear you are the guys up stairs. You’re in a cement basement. No one’s coming to save you.” She made no initial reaction, so Pete untied the gag, holding it just in case he’d need it again for when Monica tried something. What, he didn’t know, but if he knew anything about this girl (which was apparently not much at all), it was that she was full of surprises.

But, even with the gag removed, she didn’t say anything, just regarding the man coolly with her light eyes.

“…You were going to knock me out and drug me and my band, put us through that fucked up drug-crazed dinner, torture us, burn us, fucking possess Patrick… why?”

Her calm demeanor cracked just enough that Pete felt a bit of pride in her confusion. “How do you know… any of that?”

“I know a lot of shit, Monica… If that even is your real name.” God, the line was so cliché, but Pete always considered himself a pretty clichéd person. Mostly a fucked up cliché, but cliché nonetheless. “Who are you?”

A coy smile, one Pete used to find very attractive, fell so easily onto her beautiful features. “Did you ever ask anything real about me, Pete? Really?”

This interrogation or discussion was turning around faster than Pete could try to correct it. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” he snapped.

“Did you ever really ask about me, Pete? Most of the time you’d go off on your poetry rants and kiss me. You didn’t start asking me what I liked to do until we were practically living together!” There was too much enjoyment in the acid that fell from her lips. Pete felt physically sick with every mocking word. What really burned him was that she was right. He didn’t know shit about her. He’d been with her for at least half a year, and barely knew her.

“Not enough room in that ego of yours for two, I guess,” she mocked.

Pete just shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he snapped, not even giving her the chance to expand. “Because you don’t have time to deal with your ego when you’re running for your life. You don’t know… the hell I’ve just been through, Monica. It changes you. So when I say ‘who are you?’ it’s because I’m a different person. Whatever machine you music murdering bitches have been building, I want you to know it works. Because I went through it.”

Monica’s jaw set, trying not to give a reaction. However, that was reaction enough for the bassist to know she understood exactly what he was talking about. “And I saw what you did, what you’re going to do. I watched my friends die, I was stabbed in the back, and even after all of that… we still destroyed your enterprise, and now we’re back to do it again. So whatever shit you have planned, think again, bitch.”

Silence. Monica held Pete’s intense and wild gaze with light eyes that almost seemed…frightened. Good. It was about time someone other than Pete was frightened.

“And I’ll tell you what Monica… while maybe the memories in my head aren’t what happened here, they’re still in my head and they still happened. Maybe the others upstairs aren’t willing to kill someone. But they haven’t seen the world like I did… I killed three of your women, Monica. I’m not afraid to do it again. For my friends and for this world… I will do whatever I have to to protect it.”

Silence again. But Pete didn’t really care or want to hear what she had to say any more. Frankly, if he kept looking at that face that had literally stabbed him, he might do something he’d regret. She was clearly reading the proper pronouns in his sentences. By “world” Pete Wentz meant Patrick and by “it” he meant him. A man defending a place was formidable. A man defending a person was impassible. Picking the gag up again, Pete put it back in its place, tying it perhaps too tight, but really not giving a single shit at that point.

“Choke on that,” he hissed, getting up and walking out as the growing urge to punch something or someone festered in his gut.

Joe, at Pete’s return, went back down stairs, patting the bassist on the back as he passed. Everyone felt for Pete. It had to be hard to find out the person you thought you loved was the one trying to hurt you the most.

“We need to find the girl who helped us before, the one we told you about, Hannah,” Pete said, sitting down on the couch with determination and ignoring the pity stares of those around him. “She helped us the first time and her weapons were… way better than I gave them credit for. If we can find her again, then we’ll at least have another ally. And we need as many of those as we can get.”

Obviously no one was going to deny Pete’s claim, as more allies in this war would be incredibly helpful. Especially with someone on the inside, like Hannah was. There were, however, the obvious hiccups in Pete’s plan.  
“Well, how do we find her?” Mikey asked, leaning forward, eager to get something done.

The whiskey-eyed bassist looked to his blonde counterpart, having no answer. “…I don’t know. She came to us last time, and that was only after… some things happened.”

“Well… how did she get in touch?” Patrick asked, biting his lip again. So far, this Hannah girl was their only real lead. It was also something better to do than debating back and forth about what to do with Monica.

“She… slid us a card under the door of the interrogation room,” Pete sighed, closing his eyes. If he could just remember the address on the card… But she’d been expecting them then. If they just showed up out of the blue, they were likely to get hit or something. Pete was not exactly eager to get another drumstick bolt lodged in his back. “She knew where we were though, so she had to have been watching us…”

“Maybe she’ll approach us then,” Ray offered. “I mean, things are different, but maybe they’re not so different that she won’t make her self known…”

It was a bit of a stretch, as none of them were really time travel experts and all they could do was guess. But a guess could go a long way when you were playing a game of could-be’s and what-if’s.

But, the exhausted bassist was sick of playing this game and started leaning pretty heavily against Patrick who gladly took Pete’s hand and let the man lean on him. It was Pete’s turn to demand a little strength from the singer. They would only get through this together, and both were painfully aware of that fact.

Even the boys of My Chem could feel this. Gerard had barely let go of Frank’s hand and barely let Mikey out of his sight. He had nothing to worry about, of course, since Ray was also keeping watch over the lanky bassist. The two were sitting close, the physical presence of the other reminding them of their safety. It was a wordless exchange, one of soft touches, questioning eyes, and reassuring smiles. Just a check and reminder of their care for the other. Everyone present had done this routine many times, Andy being one who’d done it to everyone there within the past few hours. He was the mother hen, he supposed. Everyone was operating on the buddy system while he and Joe were tag teaming on baby sitting duty. Typical.

With that thought he wondered if maybe he should switch with the guitarist, just to give the guy a break. And then, even as he was considering it, stumbling foot steps could be heard. Thinking Joe had tripped, the drummer moved quickly to get the door. What stumbled out of it, however ,was not a clumsy Joe, but a very malicious looking Monica with an arm and a knife wrapped around Joe’s throat.

“NO BODY FUCKING MOVE,” She snapped, grabbing everyone’s attention in seconds. “Don’t you _fucking_ move, or I will paint this floor with his fucking blood!” Everyone was on their feet in a second, but none dare made a move. Not with Joe in the balance.

“Choke on this, huh,” she mocked, stepping away from the stairs and into the room. Knowing she was safe, she had full reign of the conversation, mostly as the one controlling it. She had all the cards and she was more than happy to rub it in their faces. Slitting Joe Trohman's throat would only be the icing on the cake. Courtney would be so proud.

“C’mon, Pete,” She chided, confident and smiling even as she walked barefoot, dragging Joe with her. Despite the knife and added body, she was still violently beautiful, and that pissed Pete off more than he could explain. “Where’s that courage you’d found? Remember, back when you were threatening me? Still wanna try and kill me? …Or was that just another lie you told yourself so you could feel better about being a fucking coward?”

“Don’t listen, man, she’s bluffing,” Joe said, quickly being silenced with a blade pressed more firmly against his throat and an icy glare he couldn’t really see so much as feel from Monica.

“I wouldn’t test that theory, if I were you,” she said, ever inching towards the door. “After all, none of you are exactly precious cargo. You’re all pretty damn expendable, and now that you’re all together, and an even bigger target.” Every word took her closer to the door as she returned each glare she’d received since being stuck to a chair. Oh no, she was out now, and she was more than eager to get back and start razing some hell on these bastards. Once word got out that My Chem and Fall Out Boy were under the same roof, these pathetic rebels wouldn’t stand a chance.

“You fucking bitch,” Andy snarled, the rage in his eyes bordering on cataclysmic.

“Please, keep the names coming,” Monica smiled, only a few feet from the door now. “I’m sure Joe here will find them just as interesting. Maybe I'll take time and carve them into each one of your pathetic hides.”

They were helpless and everyone knew it.

“…You can’t win,” Gerard said, lobbing a final and pointless attempt that just made the woman smile.

“Oh, yes… Yes I can. I already have, sweetie.”

As her free hand reached for the door, she very carefully turned the knob and started making her way outside, Joe still in her grasp.

“No one follow me,” She demanded, and they obeyed.

However, she’d only made it ten feet when the sounds of a scuffle reached the boys' ears. While the others debated going after her, for fear of Joe’s sake, Andy didn’t even wait a beat and just ran. Followed by the others, the drummer took in the scene as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Joe was safe, on the ground and pressed against one of the cars in the driveway, slowly inching away from the two women who were fighting. One was clearly Monica and the other was clearly winning, straddling Monica’s body and throwing punches like a champ. Not anticipating a fight, Monica was ill-prepared, barefoot, and caught completely off guard. She didn’t stand a chance against the other woman and was out before Joe could finally get to his feet and retreat towards his friends.

Tossing her hair back, Joe's unknown savior stood up and dragged Monica by the arm back towards the house.

“…Hi,” Andy said, at a loss of what to say to this… beautiful war goddess.

“Hannah,” she said, smiling at Andy, and to a lesser extent, the rest of the Young Bloods. “Hi…”

“You helped us,” Pete said, walking up to her. Of course, he was speaking of the reality that didn’t exist, while she looked down at the unconscious Monica she was dragging.

“I’m on your side,” she assured them. “I don’t want to hurt you, I—”

“We know,” Frank responded, letting the woman save her breath. If anything it made her more confused, but they really didn’t have time. “But, let’s get her”—He pointed to Monica’s unconscious and bloodied body—“Inside first.”

“I’ve got neighbors,” Patrick said, wincing a bit as he pictured the phone calls he was going to get.

“Right,” She said, leaning down to pick up Monica. The others surged forward to help pick her up, but as they moved, Hannah grabbed Monica by herself, draping her, fireman-style over thin but powerful shoulders. She turned to the others, only to find them standing and staring (quite impressed, really), and in her way.

“C’mon Young Bloods,” she said with a sigh. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! Duchess here!!! SO happy to share this chapter with you guys. Man. July was kind of a terrible month for me. I'm kind of real glad it's over, but I just wanted to tell you guys that we're so crazy happy with all of your support, and we hope you like this chapter! See you next month!!  
> ~Duchess


	17. Novocaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events and timelines have begun to converge and clash. Now the Young Bloods and the Killjoys are all in once place and ready to move.

“ _..._ _and I feel like a photo that's been overexposed_ _.”_

 

~

  
Once Hannah had her wouldbe opponent secure—and she was much better at tying knots than the boys—it was down to business. She allowed them some time to tell her what was going on when she'd not been on surveillance duty, which as it turned out, was often. She expressed her delight at being assigned the Young Bloods. In turn, she attempted to fill the gaps they missed.

Pete, Andy, Patrick and Joe had not been privy to all the intelligence they could have been had they known this was an organized fight. To their knowledge, for the most part, they were simply being attacked by people who had a distaste for music. Obviously, they'd since learned how incorrect they were, but it was almost too late. Without the crazy time machine, it _would_ have been.

“We suspected Courtney was doing some kind of experiments with a weird, semi-radioactive substance in the lower levels of this warehouse,” Hannah concluded, poking a well-kept fingernail into a spot on a map she'd pulled from the car she parked just outside Patrick's house. When Ray had—wisely, she told him—questioned her about this choice of parking space, Hannah had responded that it would look like they had been taken by Courtney's goons and that perhaps it was just a job for two troops instead of one.

“Well you guys were only half wrong,” Joe responded, pushing himself off the trim of the entrance to Patrick's living room, “if what Pete and Pat' said is true, and you know _I_ believe it is.”

“Whatever is in that briefcase,” Gerard jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the case in question which, after the scuffle, had been moved to an area they could all see, in this case Mikey's lap. “That's what you meant by semi-radioactive?”

Hannah nodded, “we're not sure of the nature, save what we now know from Patrick's story. And don't worry, my people now have the intel.”

“We've also got Monica,” Pete groaned from a chair. He had a wet washcloth over his forehead and eyes, but his hearing was still mercifully intact. From time to time, Patrick leaned over to dab at his nose, which was still trickling blood from the earlier episode of crossed-timeline-itis, or whatever it was.

“Right,” said Hanna, smashing her fist into an open palm, “maybe we can get more out of her, figure out what else they're up to—or at least numbers, weapons, positioning.”

Andy seemed to jump out of a stupor from his seat on the piano bench. The blush on his face was of the loveliest crimson shade, but no one noticed, they were too busy contemplating the enormity of what Hannah was asking them to do.

“We have to assault that warehouse?” Ray mumbled, “alone?”

“We're not alone,” Patrick corrected him, sitting straighter, “just like we weren't—aren't...wont be? In the future that's...that is _not_ gunna happen because we have The Phoenix.”

The Young Bloods and the men who were or would become the Fab Four murmured amongst themselves for a few minutes, deliberating just what this meant. Gerard leaned over to Frank and whispered something in his ear that made the guitarist pull an ugly face and shake his head. The redhead shrugged and turned his palms skyward as if that was _his_ last contribution to whatever their minute conversation had been. Hannah had turned her attention, meanwhile, to Andy.

“You're quiet,” she said, “and I read your file... it says you're always like that, but it's not because you're stupid... that much I can see from here. Do you mind?”

Hannah was gesturing to the seat beside the understated drummer, who moved his behind over to accommodate her. Miraculously, Andy was wearing a shirt and even long pants, the latter of which allowed his butt to slide comfortably across the hardwood of the bench. As Hannah sat down, folding her hands into her lap, he mimicked the action and fixed her with a sidelong glance.

“I don't know any more about this than anyone else here,” he insisted, “probably less.”

“That's not entirely true,” Hannah interjected, “and even if it is, your theories are just as valid as any of these guys.”

Meanwhile, Mikey was leaning toward Pete to see if he was really alright. It wasn't that he didn't trust Patrick to take care of his obnoxious emo king ex. Mikey was just a really good, surprisingly forgiving guy. He refrained from speaking too loudly so as not to upset whatever was hurting Pete, which Patrick noticed and appreciated. They carried on a low-level conversation themselves.

“I mean, I was thinking of how they talked about The Phoenix as some kind of person,” Andy muttered, almost embarrassed at the admission, “and if she _was_ a person, why would she leave just because we're not in a real desert? This place—the situation—is almost like a desert anyway.”

“The hopelessness feels very post-apocalyptic wasteland,” Hannah agreed, “but go on.”

Ray leaned back, palms pressed to tightly-closed eyes, lips pursed hard, trying his damnedest to remember just what had happened in those weird dreams he'd had as a teenager. Gerard had done a bang-up job encapsulating the highlights of their story together in _Danger Days_ , but there were pieces he knew were all his. It was maddening to try and figure out memories of a time that hadn't happen—and wouldn't now, thanks to the Young Bloods. He was grateful, of course, and definitely didn't want those memories to become reality. All the same, it would have been nice to recall _some_ of it.

“Patrick was possessed, but he came back to _himself_ in that desert, where he met the Phoenix Witch—kind of,” Andy began, haltingly, “well... I mean he didn't know it at the time, but he figured it out later.”

“She was his weapon, and he was hers, right?” Hannah coaxed, enjoying Andy's train of thought, but not wanting to derail it. “I think you're onto something.”

Earlier, during the rehash, Patrick had described a sensation he'd not noticed at first when they'd landed in the 2019 Californian desert. It was one of being watched and guided. Even his bouts of uncontrollable, inhuman rage seemed to have been tempered there, probably why the Fabulous Four had lived to talk about it. It had been as if the Phoenix Witch was waiting for his mind to clear enough for her to get through to him, to help him—help _them_.

“So maybe...since he was able to use it to...y'know, push their way through Better Living Industries...in a really physical way,” Andy was beginning to piece together an idea that was equal parts crazy and sensible, “do you think...it would work here, too?”

“I do,” Hannah said, a wide smile pushing her cheeks upward toward gentle, determined eyes. Andy liked those eyes, thought they were very honest, very open. Eyes were a window to the soul, it was said, and if that was true, Hannah's was pure as a dove. “Either way, it's worth a shot, right?”

As the two of them came to this conclusion, the miniature conversations around the room began to die. Hannah rose from her seat on the piano bench next to FOB's drummer and strode with purpose toward the center of the room. All eyes were on her.

“Alright, you look like you've come up with something,” Joe grunted, “and since you're the one in heels, I'm inclined to believe you.”

This was met with much-needed laughter from everyone. Nobody was about to argue that these fierce women in black leather everything and tight ponytails were fucking intimidating, which was why it had been good to find out someone like that was on their side. Unlike her counterparts, however, Hannah's flaxen hair flowed free.

“Good, except this one's not mine,” she responded, offering a small gesture toward Andy, “it's his.”

Ray gave his trope counterpart a dual thumbs-up from across the room. Andy himself continued his parade of cute smiles and flushed cheeks. While he was not uncomfortable in the spotlight, per se, it was not his usual home, especially when not shielded by a drumset.

“So tell us what's up,” Frank demanded, ever the impatient one. He figured they'd waited long enough for this garbage to be over with; why in the world would they want to put it off any longer? Courtney had to go down, and fast.

“Give it a second,” Gerard scolded, clicking his tongue like a disapproving mother. Frank leaned over and whispered something in the elder Way's ear that must've been damn scandalous, because the latter turned as red as his hair as his mouth clamped firmly shut. Frank's lips twisted at the corners, upward of course.

“Anyway,” Hannah snapped, “if you guys could focus for ten seconds, I think Andy's idea has real merit.”

Now all eyes were on Andy Hurley. The tattooed drummer was not at all prepared for this, but he wanted so desperately to help his friends and his cause that momentary discomfort did not matter. They were all so ready to incorporate anyone and everyone's thoughts and theories on whatever had just happened to them—or was yet to happen—he probably could have said anything and they'd have taken it as gospel truth.

“I think we can use The Phoenix to assault that compound,” Andy said finally, eyes on the floor, but voice as strong as it had ever been. “Patrick and Pete said they used it in Battery City, so why wouldn't it work here? It's...our gift, I guess, from Patrick's Phoenix Witch friend.”

Hannah was beaming. She had reached a similar conclusion, but was more than happy to let Andy say it aloud. It made _him_ happy, that much she could see, and she was unaccustomed to others being on the same wild mental tracks she was. It was refreshing to have met him. Hannah hoped she would be seeing more of the drummer. If their plan worked, she _could_. If not, they'd all be living in a soundless, loveless world soon enough and none of this would matter. She pushed the thought from her head.

“So,” she began, “we know it sounds crazy, but I think it will work.”

“It's all we've got,” Patrick admitted. Pete squeezed his hand and mumbled something unintelligible to the rest of them—though only Patrick heard it—before leaning further back into the couch and moaning quietly. The ginger followed him with the rag, dabbing at his nose.

“I just wanna see it work,” Mikey grunted, voicing all their fears. He didn't finish the sentence, but Joe did it for him.

“If it's crunch time and that shit don't fly, we're all just this side of dead.”

He remembered the way Patrick had described the draculoids during their retelling of the whole thing. He was also familiar with Gerard's comic adjacent the album. Those things were human, but just barely. Alive, but just barely.

Conscious.

But just barely.

“At this second, a world without sound is equivalent to a world without free will,” Hannah stated, “and as much as I hate to admit it, all three of you are right, which puts us in a pretty fucking bad position.”

“We've never been in a _good_ position since this whole thing started,” Frank pointed out, hands behind his head, “so what makes you think we can't pull this off?”

“Now I didn't say that,” she fixed him with a devilish smirk.

“So what _are_ you saying?”

Hannah was already headed toward the basement door. Everyone leaned forward or stood up to watch, drawn by the invisible and deadly magnet of curiosity. No one could help themselves wondering the same thing:

What was she about to do with Monica?

“Hold on, are you sure that's a good idea?” Andy squeaked, standing from the piano bench and joining Hannah at the basement door. She shook her head and mouthed “no” before kissing him on the cheek and heading downward.

Everyone's eyes were once more on Andy and many of those faces held smiles, knowing or otherwise. Gerard's, cocked halfway across his face like it often did, was perhaps the most obvious. He politely averted his eyes momentarily, squeezing Frank's thigh for him to do the same. Frank hissed and swatted at him, but all went silent as Hannah came back up the stairs with Monica and a folding chair in tow.

Their enemy was gagged and bound, but her pinched visage spoke volumes for the mouth that could not. If it was possible for someone to shoot knives out of their eyeballs, Monica would have been shooting laser beams. Andy had followed Hannah's train of thought and he moved the piano bench away from the instrument and closer to the center of the room, right across from Patrick. The ginger fought every urge in his body screaming that he should draw away from her and instead sat still, clutching the bloodstained rag he'd been using to wipe Pete's nose.

“The Phoenix drove out whatever demon it was they put inside you,” Hannah said, speaking directly to the tiny Young Blood, “once you saw her, I mean...”

“Yeah, I didn't change after the first time she started appearing to me,” Patrick nodded, “right up until then, though, it was always kind of a threat.”

He'd not thought of the timing. In fact, he'd not thought of much of anything after rehashing it for My Chem. Having it laid out before them for their perusal was useful, to say the least. Another brain working on it couldn't hurt.

“You might've thought you were going crazy,” Hannah surmised, “but you weren't. You were channeling her and she pushed out whatever they did to _you_. And now you've gotta do it to drive the demons out of _this_ bitch.”

Monica was fixing every single one of them with her now-familiar dagger glare. Hanna yanked the gag from her mouth and grabbed her chin. She stared Monica down, completely fearless.

“Listen here, honey,” Monica hissed, “you're on the wrong side. These fucking losers can't do a thing to stop what we're doing. When I get outta here, I'm going to tear your heart out.”

“Sure y'are,” Hannah snorted. She straightened and turned to Patrick. “It's showtime.”

“We're going to need this, right?” Ray grunted, grasping the briefcase containing what they'd been calling “The Element,” and handing it over to Hannah. She nodded, figuring that if it was powerful enough to jump start a machine and send a couple of guys a few years into a shitty, apocalyptic future, it would probably suffice to drive the music muncher mojo out of Monica.

Pete was coming back to himself, uncovering his eyes and shifting his position. Leaning forward on the couch, he kept a hand on Patrick's lower back. The ginger had relinquished his hold on the bloody rag and Pete now had it pressed against his nose of his own accord.

“Before I do this—like, before I even try,” Patrick stumbled over his words a moment before finding his verbal footing, “I need to know how _you_ got free of whatever's got their minds, Hannah.”

“Like with any kind of possession, you have to give it permission,” Hannah responded, “and I never did.”

“Doesn't that mean you've gotta _wanna_ be free of it, though?” Mikey asked, making an excellent point. None of them were exorcists in any way, of course, and this wasn't the average demon-living-inside-you deal, but the concept seemed the same. The way those women acted was nothing short of demonic, from their dressage style to their unearthly strength.

“I hope not,” Hannah groaned, “but that's why we're here, right?”

“It'll work,” Andy quietly reassured Hannah. She thanked him with a simple smile and then turned her attention back on the proverbial man of the hour. Patrick now had the aluminum briefcase in his lap and was fiddling with the lock, unsure whether to open it now or wait.

“Okay, but... if this thing is some kind of radioactive shit,” Pete grunted, “I'm not letting 'Trick get all irradiated for a fucking theory.”

Both Frank and Gerard nodded in that weird, in-synch way they sometimes did and Mikey pulled an “ew, radiation” face. Both Ray and Andy were eying the box suspiciously and Joe didn't seem to appreciate the idea of being exposed to whatever that was at close proximity.

“Pete, it's not about what _you_ want,” Patrick reminded his friend softly, “or what I want,” because he'd rather not have been irradiated for a theory either, “it's about the movement... and if we don't wanna die before we even start, we'd better be willing to take risks. Besides, future me did it...”

“Remember what happened to future us?” Pete growled. Patrick shook his head, silencing him. This wasn't something he'd have willingly chosen, but as the burden now fell to him, he decided to figure it out.

Hannah was glad Patrick was on board with this whole thing. She turned her attention once more to Monica, who was being strangely quiet through the conversation. Her face held a mask of smug victory, which Hannah found odd, given _she_ was the one tied to the chair.

“Open it up, Patrick,” Hannah said softly, “open it and give her a taste of The Phoenix.”

A thought had been brewing in Gerard's head since this whole conversation surrounding his supposedly fictitious construct had begun, but he couldn't quite cement it. He watched Patrick's gentle hands tilt the lid of the aluminum briefcase open, saw the shining, white-gold light the man's face and squinted at its glimmer. Everyone was listening to the song Patrick produced as The Element glowed and surrounded him in gentle, radiant warmth.

Monica spat at him, “c'mon pussy; you can't _touch_ me.”

They were all being carried away in the music, even Hannah, who'd settled down on the piano next to Andy. She could hardly breathe as her eyes filled with tears. Her hands slid up to her mouth. She'd heard Patrick sing before, they all had, but fueled by The Element, he was a force of nature.

With each line, Monica was hissing and spitting, cursing at the little ginger and laughing. It was just like when the priests performed exorcisms in the movies. In fact, just like the movies, in the first exorcisms, Patrick began to falter. He didn't forget words, but the power behind them was being squashed. By the end, he was on _his_ knees in front of Monica, blood trickling from his nose.

“Pathetic,” she snarled, putting her boot mercilessly into his gut and sending him to the ground before Hannah could stop her. The briefcase snapped shut as Patrick hit the floor. Pete was immediately at his friend's side, tugging him as far away from Monica as he could get. He fixed her with an absolutely on-fire glare, jaw tight.

“Slit her fucking throat,” Pete hissed, about to leap up, but for his friend's hand on his elbow.

“Pete...” Patrick whispered, “please don't.”

“Don't worry, man,” Joe snarled, “you don't need to do anything. _We_ will.”

“No!” Gerard snapped. “Hey! No one's killing anyone.”

The thought he'd been mulling over had come to fruition with the kick that drove Patrick to the ground. Gerard stood, knees cracking. He grunted a bit at that and the slap on the ass he received from Frank on the way up.

“What's up, bro?” Mikey asked, grasping his brother's hand on the way by.

“The Phoenix Witch doesn't exist,” Gerard informed Patrick, who groaned in response.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she doesn't exist in the here and now for that purpose... to exorcise sound-hating demons, I mean,” said one vocalist to the other. “Without your song, she never came to be... that is, you didn't summon her until 2019. From me, she was just an idea, y'know? A concept or memory? I stuffed her into a comic book to get her out of my head... You gave her life when she was closest to being that way herself, probably because of the zone runners practically worshiping her.”

“So he can't bring her to life now?” Pete's brows were gathered at the center of his forehead as he wrapped his arms tighter around Patrick's little body.

“No, or...rather, not yet...it's not the time. Technically, Patrick's song follows a series of events that would have forced him to bring us,” Gerard gestured to his crew, “back to life in order to storm BLI headquarters.”

By now, Pete's partner was shaking. The kick had done some damage, but his freshly-severed connection with The Element being drained him. He looked pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“...dizzy,” Patrick mumbled helplessly, breath shallow and coming in gasps. “Please...”

Mikey scuttled from his seat and joined Pete on Patrick's other side, helping the man to his feet. They had the same thought, no explanation necessary, heading toward the bedroom. Gerard paused his theory to allow his brother and friends to leave. Everyone was respectful enough not to stare, but that didn't stop them worrying.

Monica opened her mouth to speak, but this time it was Gerard who silenced her—just a look from those olive eyes got her to snap that gob shut. Frank grinned from his seat, chewing his lower lip and making a quick, lewd gesture at his lover. Gerard waved it off and Ray shot Frank a disapproving look. Frank's hands flew up and “sorry,” popped out of his mouth, though the grin stayed.

“I don't think she's possessed,” Gerard continued, once Mikey was back in the room. Pete had elected to stay by Patrick's bedside, partially to keep an eye on the little ginger and also because he was not feeling one hundred percent just yet.

“What makes you think that, though?” Joe inquired, hands on the back of the couch where Mikey and Frank were now sitting. Blue eyes were affixed on My Chem's vocalist, whose were, in turn, snapped onto Monica.

“Just look at her,” Gerard responded, “really look. That's real loyalty in those eyes, real belief...I've seen it before...thousands of times...”

He was, of course, referring to his former—and current—fanbase, a bunch of misfit outcasts who had, since their inception, refused to be anything less than an army. The memory sickened him, though not out of pity or hatred for those people...more like sympathy. His crew had left that name behind for various reasons, but no matter what those were, it had hurt them all, like excising a piece of themselves.

Monica was unable to contain her smile by then. She barked an ugly laugh and rolled her eyes. Everyone was watching her at that point, which was exactly what Monica wanted. Once she was certain all present were paying attention, she began her lesson.

“Has it never occurred to you ingrates that _you_ might be on the wrong side?” She hissed.

“Not even fucking once,” Frank snorted, “but please, do go on and tell us how you assholes are the side of fucking righteousness, 'cause I've got nightmares for years from your shitty machine.”

“Figures,” Monica rolled her eyes, “you guys are so fucking dense. I'm on her side. Nothing is forcing me to back Courtney Love, _nothing_. _”_

Gerard gestured, indicating his point was just proven. No one was pleased by this revelation save Frank, who forced an aggressive grin.

“That means we can hit her, right? Like, 'til she stops moving.”

It was hard to say who wanted to snap Monica's neck more at that point. Hannah stood once more, however, relieving some of that tension with her gentle words and semi-reasonable plan. The way she figured it, they had leverage.

“If Monica's so important to Courtney,” Hannah said whilst refastening the gag, “that she doesn't _have_ to brainwash her, then we have a bargaining chip.”

“For what? They don't have any of ours,” Mikey pointed out as Gerard settled between him and Frank. Joe straightened and moved around to sit next to Andy on the piano bench. Both remained silent, but Ray spoke up.

“Hang on, guys, what about all the rockers they probably have? Patrick said they messed him up good before he forgot what was going on, blacked out and chased his friends down. What if they're trying to do that with more people than just _him_?”

Monica's cruel laughter filtered through the restraint of the gag. Obviously Courtney wasn't going to give them all back to the Young Bloods for just one of her people, no matter how precious. Monica was either cackling about _that_ or yet another awful, inevitable truth the boys would have to face soon.

All eyes were once more on her, Gerard's included. He didn't have a theory for this and was eager to see what she had to say—surprisingly—and so asked Hannah to once more remove the gag. Their gal on the inside did it with some reluctance, stepping away. Monica spat at her and turned heavily-lined eyes on the rest of the group.

“Courtney knows I won't give anything up she doesn't want you idiots to know, so in that way, I guess I _am_ pretty valuable, but you're right if you're thinking she won't trade shit for me. I'm a pawn—a fucking great one—but just a pawn, in the end,” her words were like pinpricks of heat, each one carrying like a dagger to the others in the room. “It's all for the ideal.”

“What is the fucking point of all this?” Pete huffed angrily from the entrance to the corridor leading out of Patrick's bedroom. He gripped either wall with white-knuckled hands, blood splattering his face, but not falling. His brows were knotted at the center of his forehead and his face was a mask of fury. “Answer me, Monica. What is the point?”

“What're ya gunna do, Petey-pie? Hit me? You haven't got the stones,” she purred. In her gloating, she did not see Mikey Way's fist come from the other direction and snap her head around. Monica's eyes rolled back into her head as she was tossed forcefully from consciousness.

Not known for his violent outbursts, Mikey was suddenly the center of attention. He sought to recede into himself at Ray's side, but could not do so as he'd just punched a woman into next Tuesday. It was the nickname that had set him off. He chose not to place _why_.

“Alright, new plan,” Gerard took over once more, “because I think we've got the Phoenix all wrong, here. That song let us get through BLI, but how? Resurrection. It brought us back... it brought a lot of people back. Those draculoids weren't possessed, they were dead...basically zombies.”

This revelation threw everyone for a complete loop. Frank had to close his mouth manually after Gerard spilled this little theory. It was crazy, but what about this situation _wasn't_?  
“Okay, that's fine, but what have we got instead?” Ever the pragmatist, Joe was quick to offer a devil's advocate rebuttal to the vocalist's “new plan,” just in case it all went sour which, with them, things often did.

“We need another song, something from the here and now...something that will act like The Phoenix without actually _being_ The Phoenix,” Gerard responded quickly. “Because it's not her time, yet. I think she comes when she's needed and right now we need exorcism, not resurrection.”

No one was really sure if this idea would work and Hannah could sense things coming apart. Even Pete—whose outburst had led to Monica's present state, albeit indirectly—had nothing to say on the subject. Gerard just had a gut feeling that the song would come to him, but he didn't know how to express this to everyone else without looking like a complete kook.

Everyone sat with folded hands, pursed lips and furrowed brows. It was disconcerting to see the fire die just like that. Granted, everything was simmering, but the wild roar had subsided. Hannah knew for a fact that if the very few of them were going to assault Monica's awful warehouse complex on their own, they'd need a trump card. Gerard's idea was as good as any, better even, so she puffed out her chest, stuck her chin in the air and decided to roll with it.

“They'll know where we are by now and within a day, they'll be down on this house like a pack of ravening wolves. We're gunna saddle up and arm ourselves to the fucking teeth. We are going to strike first. Blitzkrieg.”

The revelation of their urgent position hit everyone like a freight train. Immediately, they'd split into tiny conversation groups, hashing and rehashing all their albums, all the songs they could think of, and then some. No one had a solid idea what to use, or even if any of them would work. Even Gerard, who was still certain the song would come when he needed it, found himself deep in thought, as if contemplating such a thing would help destiny work faster.

Meanwhile, Hannah had enlisted Andy's help to bring their captive to the basement. On her way by Pete, who was still leaning in the doorway, she advised he go back and join Patrick.

“You two have done so well—or will do well... or would have,” she shook her head, tossing flaxen tresses this way and that, “whatever it is... You deserve a break. Hopefully, we can give you a more permanent one. How's that?”

“Aside from how menacing you probably accidentally just sounded,” Pete responded with some exhausted humor, “yeah, we'll take it.”

With that, he receded into the shadows of Patrick's back hallway, leaving Hannah and Andy to hoist Monica, chair and all, between them and down into the basement. Hannah shoved a cot or two aside to make room as they set her down. Patting her hands together to admire their work, she suddenly felt a tentative arm around her waist.

It took a moment to still her instincts. She turned in his arms and placed her hands on either side of his face. They were calloused, not at all delicate as he'd for some reason imagined. Obviously, she would have had rough hands, he thought; Hannah was a warrior.

“I know this's probably a bad time,” he muttered, “but I really...feel like I know you better than I actually do.”

“It's probably the time lines crossing,” Hannah responded quietly, with an oddly gentle smile on her soft lips, “which means...we must mean _something_ to each other somewhere. So why not here, and now?”

Within moments, leather was hitting the floor and one of the cots had two new occupants. It was quiet, gentle, with kissing and caressing. Neither had felt a warm touch in a long time, but their urgency and need did not overcome care. Andy was big and they needed protection. Much like the earlier occupants of the laundry room, they scrabbled about for a condom.

And like Frank and Gerard, someone's skilled hands found exactly what they sought and applied it. There wasn't time to do it like they wanted, but there was time to find solace in another person in the most intimate way possible. Never once did Monica's presence cross their minds as Hannah lowered herself gently onto Andy, hands clasping his, lower lip between her teeth. Both were smiling for what felt like the first time in ages.

They didn't have long, obviously, but both were also confident the threat of Monica's presence in the basement would keep any would-be walk-ins at bay. The warmth and closeness overcame Hannah and she tilted her body forward to lay gentle kisses all over Andy. He muttered apologies for not treating her better beforehand; these, she silenced with more kisses.

“It's fine, you're fine,” she promised him between gasping breaths. Her hips rolled gently atop his in a vivid dance Andy was more than pleased to witness. Soon, he was arching his hips up into her and it was becoming more difficult for Hannah to keep quiet. The wildest part of it was the impropriety and terrible timing, which made her laugh aloud.

“Huh?” Andy grunted beneath her between panting and gentle thrusts. She bounced on him, her blonde waves springing with the movement, a beautiful flush settling across fierce cheeks. As he began to tense between her thighs, jerking becoming erratic, Hannah's hips rolled hard and she squeezed her insides to pull his orgasm from him. She silenced his cry with her lips.

He road it out a bit longer before returning her kiss and embrace. Hannah lay atop him for several sweet seconds before rolling off and peppering his face with more kisses than the surface could contain. She gathered herself, straightening her jacket, hair and pants.

“Up and att'em,” she chided as Andy sat up and removed the condom, tying it off. Patrick's basement was oddly well-equipped with trash bins. From their many jam sessions there, Andy knew the location of each and tossed the used protection therein.

Neither of them breathed a word as they headed back upstairs, well aware that their little interlude was incredibly inappropriate, but borderline necessary. No one questioned either of them as they returned, as everyone had broken once again into separate conversation groups, but had also seemingly converged upon the map that still lay on Patrick's coffee table. This was a good sign and Hannah took full advantage.

“They have numbers, and all entrances are well-guarded, I can promise you that,” she said, pointing at the various points of entry around the map. “So there's really no option other than to take this place like you did Better Living.”

 

~

 

Two hours later, they found themselves doing just that, standing before the facade of Courtney Love's menacing warehouse. True to form, the mistress of mayhem herself strode out a rising garage-style door, flanked on either side by a legion of tight leather-clad women wielding broken pieces of instruments, sledgehammers, and axes.

With Pete and Patrick down for the count, it was up to Andy and Joe to represent their band. Hannah had distributed the specialized weaponry on the way there and it was this each man now held, with Gerard's fist clutching a microphone and his other, the briefcase containing that which Courtney sought.

The megaphone clutched in Courtney's manicured hand faltered in its place a little bit as Frank moved forward, tossing his guitar-shaped scythe over one shoulder to grasp the suitcase lift it. His eyes said “dare me,” but his mouth, for once, said nothing. This one was all Gerard. With one hand now free, he clutched his brother's, fingers interlacing for strength.

Everything rode on him, now. Gerard was beginning to understand how Patrick must have felt. Frank fiddled with the locks only a moment before pulling it open. There was absolutely no ceremony involved, no pomp, no circumstance. This shit was life or death.

The Young Bloods chose life.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a wild ride, but we're not done with y'all yet. Stay tuned for what's sure to be a hell of a conclusion... I leave it all in the very capable hands of my partner, DangerDuchess.


	18. SING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the final showdown. Young Bloods vs. Sound Silencers. With so much at stake, who can say what will come from it? Who will fall when the curtains do? And what will happen after this final fight to the world the Young Bloods and Killjoys fight for? Hold on tight to the Phoenix's feathers on this final ride...

_“Keep running”_

_~_

The standoff was one for the books. Nine Young Bloods versus an army of music silencers. No sounds could be heard but the distant noise of the city and the tapping of long fingernails on metal and plastic.

No one moved.

“What’cha got for me, Young Bloods? You better make it good,” crackled Courtney’s megaphone, clearly expecting little from them as she swung her source of communication around her finger, smirking at them across the way. There was no threat attached to it, aside from the glares of the women standing around their boss with weapons and killer (in the most literal sense) smiles at the ready. Gerard licked his lips as he lifted the microphone to his mouth.

“On behalf of those you fucked up that couldn’t make it… The war is won before it’s begun… Surrender, Love.”

These weren’t his words, really, but they were appropriate. Maybe he hadn’t been a part of The Phoenix, but he’d been the one to design the Phoenix Witch. He had at least some part in this, maybe more than he ever could have imagined.

Courtney and her gang began to laugh, cackling almost, like a coven of rock stars, or ravening wild dogs—even at this proximity, it was hard to distinguish.

“Oh,” Courtney said, wiping away a fake tear as her megaphone rang with its discordant tone, “the angel and the poet couldn’t make it to fight, then? Damn shame. Would’ve loved to see their colors on my pavement.”

“You’re fucking diseased, Courtney, don’t you get it? You’re done,” Gerard snapped, practically snarling as his voice rang out over the speaker. If they wanted this to work, everyone had to hear him. The woman just cocked a hip as she raised up the megaphone again.

“Don’t be so cocky, baby. You’ve got nothing on your side except what you stole from me. Like my case.” Sharp looking, painted nails pointed at the silver briefcase in Frank’s hands. All eyes turned on the guitarist who locked eyes with the wild woman. The chill in her eyes and smile made him want to shudder, but he stood strong, returning her stare with a glare of his own.

But Courtney wasn’t done. “Not to mention one of my girls.” Now her eyes fell on Hannah. Promptly, the freed blonde woman spat on the ground and glared with a passionate rage that could’ve melted metal. Courtney’s soul however, was a different material and she just smiled back at her ex-minion.

“I’ll tell you what,” came the Silencer Queen’s crackling metallic voice as she once again raised the ancient megaphone. “Give me back that case… and your pretty little traitor… And I’ll let you kids live. Not a scratch on any of your records.”

“Fuck you,” Andy shouted, speaking up briefly, just so he could. It was a simple, yet accurate statement that all nine of them could get behind. Gerard stepped forward just a bit, raising his mic again.

“Just give up, Courtney. We know how this ends.”

 “Nine against an army, baby…” she teased, looking briefly to either side of her at the throng of armed models ready to take out these band boys. As her gaze finally fell back to Gerard, the others by him shifted slightly, anxious, waiting, and ready to protect their leader. “Make your move, sweetheart, and let the blood flow, 'cause we’re done with the chit chat. Girls? Let’s kill the noise.”

Before Love had even finished the statement, the women charged, weapons raised along with a feral scream that chilled the boys to the bones in seconds.

But it wasn’t enough to stop them.

In seconds, the Mikey, Ray, Andy, Joe and Hannah surged forward to protect Frank and Gerard as they readied their weapon.

“Sing, babe,” Frank urged before pressing a kiss to the corner of Gerard's beautiful, deadly mouth and opening the case and slamming it on the ground. He then turned, whirling away from his lover, back to join the fight.

With Frank’s command, Gerard took a breath to calm his nerves and looked to the glowing object inside. Out of some place, somewhere—inside him, or just in the air, filling the nebulous space—a drum beat began, followed by a few high piano notes. Now was the time.

Setting the megaphone aside and crouching close to The Element (in his mind, it was capitalized, like some kind of great, fantastical spell-holding gemstone or artifact one might read about in a fantasy novella), Gerard closed his eyes, feeling the elements power in the music, in the air, in him. To his lips, he raised a yellow-colored microphone, the essential instrument of vocal delivery, wired directly into The Element...

And opened his mouth.

_“Sing it out… boy, you’ve got to see what tomorrow brings...”_

The fight was playing out between the two groups with a clash of violent shrieks and grunting, weapons and steel on steel and flesh, leaving Gerard protected by sheer distance for the moment, but Courtney had brought an army. The others were doing well with fending off what they could, but those Prada heels were sharp, and the weapons the women carried were sharper.

_“Sing it out… girl, you’ve got to be what tomorrow needs…”_

Frank was swinging his scythe like a mad man with Ray just next to him, using a hammer with a guitar handle to knock women back as best he could. Frank’s blade was causing cuts here and there, but mostly using it to keep Courtney’s minions at a distance. They just needed more time… Gerard was their best shot. They could only do this with him.

_“For every time… that they want to cut you out…”_

Hannah was locked in tight combat with three other girls, trying to keep all of them in front of her as even more appeared. She dared not look back at Gerard, or even at Joe and Andy, fighting back to back just next to her. She could hear the singer building, slowly. From between two silky, high ponytails, she could see Courtney, making her way forward, walking right through the wreckage, head high and smug grin securely fastened to her admittedly attractive features. With an army against nine, the evil empress would have no problem bearing down on the singer. All the others were distracted. Hannah, too, had become distracted just by looking away, and paid for it with a sharp blow to the head, sending her tumbling.

_“And use your voice…”_

Courtney was almost on Gerard now with her deadly models on either side, knives at the ready.

The vocalist still had his eyes closed. He was about to be slaughtered.

Mikey broke away from his squad of minions to protect his brother.

_“Every single time…”_

Courtney was only a few feet away, knife ready to cut the cord, to sever the ties between not only Gerard and The Element, but the singer and this ugly, mortal coil. The only thing between her and victory was the redhead himself, his pliable flesh, and the distance it would take to open his throat. His eyes were shut tight as he crouched over the box.

Suddenly Gerard’s hand was on her wrist, gripping tight like a vice and burning white like holy fire.

**_“You Open Up Your Mouth.”_ **

Suddenly, a massive wave burst forth, Gerard seeming to be the epicenter. All the women were blown back, sent skidding several feet across the pavement and knocked to the ground, some in piles atop one another. All, that is, but Courtney, who howled like a wild cat as she clawed at Gerard’s grip. But it was all drowned out in the music that seemed to be just the air itself.

**_“Sing it for the boys! Sing it for the Girls! Every time that you lose it, sing it for the world!”_ **

The beat continued to pulse, making the sound silencers scream in agony, trying to plug their ears, only to be throttle with music that didn’t come from anywhere, and yet came from everywhere.

The boys of My Chem didn’t know what to do. Gerard was a pounding beacon of power that seemed to do most of the work for them. What few girls were managing to hold on enough to try and fight were still so crippled by the blasting power that it took very little to take them down with little bloodshed.

Andy had hurried over to Hannah once all the other women had gone down, holding her head in his arms. The blonde was bleeding, but as she woke to the powerful music, she smiled and unabashedly grabbed the bearded man and pulled him down for a kiss. Happily he obliged for a moment before quickly picking her up and carrying her away from the danger area.

Meanwhile, Joe's baby blues were on Gerard, who was flying on the power of The Element like some god with wings of pure energy. In the face of such power, the guitarist couldn’t help the small tear that came to his eyes. The Young Bloods all stood, terrified and in awe of Gerard as he sang. This kind of fighting wasn’t conventional by any means, but it was clearly working. The possession was coming undone.

But in the lull of the second verse, the glow around Gerard receded. Still he sang, but the dip in energy was enough for Courtney to scramble for the upper hand and out of Gerard’s grasp. The women who managed to fight against the singer’s ethereal power charged forward as Courtney receded. Maybe they were unstable, but what they lacked in sound strategy or practical footwear they made up for in sheer rage. Two swung blades at Gerard, as he turned to protect himself. He cried out as two bleeding gashes opened on his back, but never did he drop the microphone or end the song.

Quickly, the man’s band was there, knocking the women back and checking if Gerard was okay. The singer only nodded, once again on his knees but still singing. The Element was sustaining him, he knew. He could just feel it through the celestial energy in his body. As long as The Element was coursing through him, he couldn’t die. But more accurately, he wouldn’t die. His job wasn’t done yet. The force within the briefcase wasn’t finished with him and he wasn’t finished with it. And so he rose again for the chorus with another blast, this time so strong, even his party members couldn’t remain upright in its wake.

Slowly, very slowly, the screeching of the women stopped, whatever entity that had been hanging over them finally leaving, forced out by the power of the song. Women began to sit up, rubbing their heads like they had the world’s worst migraines. Very likely, they did.

Courtney, however, was holding on tight. She hissed and thrashed, but would not give up.

“Sing all you want,” she snarled, attempting to crawl away as Gerard turned his face to hers. The voice she spoke with was guttural and monstrous, something deeper than just a crazed woman. Demonic. “You. Can’t. Take me.” Each word was a labored effort in the wind tunnel that was Sing. She was quite literally spitting into the wind. And just like that would come back to her, so did Sing.

Coming to her and grabbing both her arms, Gerard looked her dead in the eyes, disregarding the microphone completely at this point. The Element was his amplifier now. It was his power, and it was stronger than whatever was inside of Courtney.

 _“Cleaned up corporation progress.  Dyin’ in the process. Children that can_ **talk about it**. Living on the _webways_. People moving _sideways_. Sell it til your _Last days_. _Buy_ yourself a _motivation, generation_ **Nothing.** Nothing but a **Dead Scene**. Product of a **White Dream**. **I am not the singer that you wanted but a _Dancer._ I refuse to _Answer._ Talk about _the Past, Sir_. Wrote it for the _ones who want to get away_.”**

With every line, Courtney tried to recoil, hissing as she lost balance and wailed, only held up by Gerard’s power, which was beginning to fill her, forcing the thing inside to scream with its own voice as it began to be pulled away from her. It clung to her like a shadow, praying for its strings to stay attached.

With the element as his scissors, Gerard just leaned close with a grin and said,

**_“Keep Running.”_ **

Courtney collapsed without another word, hitting the ground without a sound as Gerard continued to fly on the element’s power. Slowly, the other women began to rise, rallying to the pulsing of the case and the music that beat in the air. They were called to it now, having been freed. Some even began to sing along, adding to the ringing power.

Frank and Mikey and Ray all wandered back to Gerard, beaming with pride and joy at their victory. The tiny guitarist jumped on Ray, giving the man the biggest bear hug while Mikey’s grin went so wide, it was threatening to fall off. None wanted to stop the singer in the middle of his act to celebrate, so the moment the song ended and the case was shut, the long series of hugs began.

Mikey was first, of course, locking his brother in a tight grasp in solidarity. “You did it,” the younger said, while the elder just held tight and grinned as he gently rocked their embrace a bit.

“We did it,” he corrected as he gave a final squeeze and let go.

Frank was upon him next, or more accurately, his mouth was. It was a bit startling, but certainly not unwelcome. Frank's kisses were always hungry, needy, as if he was a man starving.

However, as Ray cleared his throat behind him, anything else would have to wait.

Joe, meanwhile, had the sense to swoop in and snap briefcase shut, in case they needed its power again. The things they could do with it… who knew if they were gonna need it again in the future?

As he locked the briefcase again, Courtney began to stir. Slowly, she sat up, rubbing her head as the others had. As she looked up at Joe, he could sense something was different. Her face was… less twisted, maybe. Lighter. She looked up at him with clear eyes, only full of confusion and worry. Like any gentlemen would, he held out his hand and helped her to her feet.

“Thanks,” She said, blinking a bit as she began operating through the fog and ache stuck in her head. Having been the one in charge, fighting against her own convictions, the parasite in her had been the biggest and now the most draining. She leaned very heavily on Joe for the moment, but he took this as a good sign. She was fragile, sure, but she wasn’t trying to kill him either. He much preferred the fragile rock queen over the psychopathic murder empress. “Fuck, my head…” she moaned, finally opening her eyes as herself after some time.

“We’re thinking that’s a good sign,” the curly-haired guitarist offered somewhat. “Means you’ve got just you back in there.” It was enough to make her smile a bit, which was good enough for Joe. But, they couldn’t just stand here. They had an entire crowd of non-brainwashed super models that might or might not remember what had happened to them. They needed to question all of them, but that would take forever, and in the meantime, these girls had to rest and eat. But what if there were more hiding somewhere? A different squad that was already on its way, or a troop just coming back that were still possessed. There were too many loose ends and he had no idea where to start.

One loose end he hadn’t expected, however, was Monica. The vile woman, now freed from any binds stood where the Young Blood’s had been. With little prompting, Monica yelled at her ex-peers and dethroned boss.

“You fucking idiots. Are you all so spineless?!”

Those who hadn’t noticed the woman’s presence yet were immediately drawn to the spectacle she was creating. Young Bloods all looked to each other in incredulous disbelief at each other, and some with suspicion at Hannah. How had Monica gotten free of Patrick’s basement?

Monica certainly did not offer any answers. Instead, she just sighed, shaking her head with disappointment. “And Courtney… They won’t like that you’ve failed. I really thought you could do it too. I had your back, you fucking traitor…” The recently unpossessed Courtney Love clung to Joe’s arm, just for the safety of numbers. “But it’ll be alright. There’s still redemption for you all.”

As the women were still standing in a bit of a crowd, contemplating the woman’s words in combination with their new freedom, Monica’s form of redemption was made clear to them she pulled out two scythe-like blades. A wicked, twisted smirk rested on her lips as the crowd before her went completely silent.

“Maybe you all lost sight of the goal. But I haven’t. And now it’s time to silence the noise.”

Immediately, the women ran, with Monica not far behind them, some still in those tall Prada shoes, and others abandoning the heels for their own safety. This was to be a blood bath and none of them were willing to be a part of it, now in their right minds. They certainly had no wish to be in the presence of the psychopathic harpy that had managed to sink her blades into an unfortunate girl, fumbling in the stilettos that were her downfall.

The Young Bloods rushed forward immediately, making their way through the crowd of retreating models to swarm Monica before she could sink those blades into anyone else.

As she swung at the girl at her feet again, Frank intercepted and stuck out his own scythe, catching her blade and allowing the terrified woman the try and scramble away. Gerard came to her side as fast as he could, helping her away from the fight.

“Nice try, bitch,” Frank hissed, grinning perhaps more than he should in the middle of a firefight. Of course, Frank had only caught one of Courtney’s blades. As this thought began to dawn on him, the second blade came quickly for him, and would’ve gotten him to if he hadn’t had the sense to duck and roll.

Ray took this moment to run up behind Monica and swing his hammer into her side. She stumbled a good few feet forward with a cry, not quite sending her flying as he’d hoped, but with those heels, instability was just as good. Mikey attempted to swoop in, swinging the machete that in a different time would’ve been Pete’s. But between all the competitors in this fight, Monica was the only one with training.

She rolled into her instability, coming to a crouch just behind the bassist, still in his downswing where she had once been. In a flourish, she swung her scythes, and Mikey Way fell with a clawing shriek of vivid white pain. Huge gashes appeared across his legs, shredding his jeans and sending blood flowing instantly.

“ _MIKEY!_ ” Gerard howled, feeling the empathetic pain in his chest as sheer horror and adrenaline blinded him. He ran, feeling like he was stuck in his worst nightmare. Terrifying flashes of a future never realized snapped in and out of Gerard’s vision. Gerard pressed against a wall with a gun under his head while Mikey shouted for him in the middle of the firefight.

But Gerard was not the closest to Monica. Ray charged the woman, only to suddenly lose sight of her as she moved behind him with one of her curved blades on the curve of the fluffy haired man’s throat and the other pointing threateningly at each member of this ragtag party.

“Not another step, Young Bloods,” she spat, “Or you’ll see some _real_ young blood spread all across this pavement.” Mikey, just behind them continued groaning, blinded by his own pain as attempted to stop the bleeding using helpless, blood-slicked hands. With a detached look over her shoulder, Monica huffed, amending with, “Well… _more_ young blood.”

“You sick cunt,” Frank hissed, seething with anger as he went white knuckled on the fretboard in his hands. To this, Monica sent a mock kiss to him.

“Ray, you’re gonna be okay,” Hannah said, putting her hands up and taking a half step forward.

To this, Ray said nothing as the blade was already so closely pressed to his throat he was afraid speaking would only hurt him more. The holder of the blade was more than happy to speak as she dared to press the blade tighter to Ray’s soft flesh. Already, a thin line of red was forming. “He’d be even more okay if you keep your distance sweetheart.”

“Mikey!” Gerard called again, hoping to get his brother’s attention. It was hard to tell if the bassist was even above water or just running on terror at this point. There was so much blood…

“What do you want?!” Andy spat. “If you’re gonna kill us, then just do it already!” This statement received quite a few incredulous stares and an indignant sigh from Monica.

“God, you’re all so thick…,” she groaned, looking up to sky as if Andy was a child asking ‘why?’ for the 20th time in a row. When her icy eyes turned on the man again, she rested her second blade against Ray’s gut. “Give me the case… or I eviscerate your friend. Simple.”

Andy looked from Monica’s murderous glare to Ray’s terror filled eyes, then to the silver case in Joe’s hand and finally to Hannah, who frankly looked just as lost as he felt. In fact, all eyes turned back to the case against Joe’s thigh. Could they afford to lose this weapon? Could they afford to lose Ray?

“Courtney,” Monica smiled. “Since you’re already there… mind doing at least one decent thing and bring me that case? After all, someone’s gotta do your job, since you’ve failed…”

The rock empress, still looking rather deflated at her new release was suddenly the center of attention. She looked to Joe for some advice or anything, but the guitarist did nothing. He said nothing as she took a step closer to him and he made no move against her as she slipped the handle out of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she began walking to Monica, her heels clacking on the pavement and Mikey’s breathless exclamations the only thing anyone could hear. Everyone watched as the woman stumbled on her way, only a little at first, but as she continued it became clear the possession had taken a toll. Half way to Monica, Courtney lost her balance enough to send her to her knees. “Shit,” She hissed, just taking her tall heels off as she examined her bloody knees.

“C’mon, you hag!” The red-lipped harpy snarled. “I haven’t got all day! And neither does little Mikeyway, over here.” The rage that emanated from Gerard at the comment only made Monica smile more. He didn't dare run to his brother, for fear of setting Monica off, however. So he stayed where he was.

The case in one hand, her heels in the other, Courtney got to her feet and continued her observed journey. Monica stopped her once she was within a good six feet.

“Kick it over,” came Monica’s order, holding the frazzled woman’s gaze as they exchanged killer glares.

The case hit the ground with a thud as Courtney let go of the handle. The younger woman’s split-second horrified expression was worth it. The slightest, disgusted smile appeared on the old rock queen’s face. “You know, Monica… I’ve known some bitches in my day. But you… you really take the cake.”

A solid kick send the case sliding across the ground, tapping the wickedly smiling woman’s own heel. “…Could’ve been us Courtney… But, don’t worry, you can be redeemed too…”

“Thank god…” The rock queen muttered as Monica leaned down to pick up the case.

Gerard desperately looked for anything he could do in this moment. He couldn’t rush, he had no weapons, and the case was closed. He was sincerely out of options. But what didn’t think about was what anyone else could do.

Or at least, he didn’t until he noticed Courtney moving one of her heels into both of her hands.

Before he could put it together, one of the obscenely large heels went right to Monica’s skull with a resounding thud, knocking her back in mid reach. As she fell back however, one blade managed to slice at the side of Ray’s neck. Immediately the guitarist went to his knees from sheer exhaustion and terror. He clapped both hands over the wound in a burst of quick, lifesaving thought.

The danger now somewhat at bay, everyone rushed forward. Frank went to Ray, leading him away, while Gerard and Joe rushed to Mikey’s side, urgently looking the man over with adrenaline fueled hands, and Andy and Hannah came to Courtney’s aid who was straddled atop Monica and throwing punches with the fury of a woman out of her mind.

“Controlling my mind… destroying those instruments… kidnapping those girls… you fucking _demons_!!!” Love’s fists swung in a steady beat and soon the blonde woman’s blood was flowing, what with Courtney’s rings still on her fingers. She had been out of her mind and unmade, and here, finally, was her vengeance.

It was the kind of fury that the drummer and warrior were afraid to interrupt, but they had to do something before Courtney killed Monica. The pulp that was her face warned that death would come quickly if they did nothing.

“Courtney,” Hannah urged, “Courtney, stop!! You’re good! She’s down!”

“She… She did this….” was all the old Rock Queen managed as her gaze drifted to the bleeding corpses of the women Monica had managed to “redeem.” A long nailed hand covered Courtney’s mouth as she tried to muffle sobs that were surging up now with her new found freedom setting in. “They… I didn’t… oh god…”

Andy quickly put a hand on the woman’s back and led her up and off of Monica, away from the blood and bodies. “It’s over now… You’re okay.”

Leading Ray away as well, Frank intercepted Andy’s efforts and offered a hand out to the woman. “Go help Mikey,” the guitarist said to Andy, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, but failing at keeping it out of his eyes. The drummer nodded and went right back to the bloody mess. But Frank couldn’t worry about that mess just yet. With a smile, the small man said, “…If it’s not too weird, it’s really nice to meet you, Ms. Love.” She was able to at least manage a small smile.

But they were far from out of the woods. Gerard was practically in hysterics as Joe dialed 911. Andy handed Gerard his shirt to help try staunch the bleeding a bit.

“He’s going to be okay,” the drummer urged. The redhead nodded, but whether or not he believed it was a different story. He was still bleeding himself, the warm red stuff having long ago soaked his shirt. None of it mattered to him, not when Mikey was here, practically dying on the pavement. No… he wasn’t dying. Mikey was going to be okay. He had to be… he just had to.

Hannah, having dragged Monica’s unconscious body a few feet away from the scene, trotted back over, standing at Mikey’s head and looking over the shaking and deathly pale man. There was so much blood on the ground around them… How much had Mikey lost? Did he even have any left in his body? It was hard to tell.... but it didn’t look good.

She didn’t dare say any of this out loud of course, she wasn’t an idiot. Instead, she offered Gerard a weak smile as she put her hands under the man’s head. “Mikey… Mikey can you hear me?” The man continued to croak, eyes darting here and there, but said nothing coherent. “Hold on Mikey,” She urged. “You’re gonna be okay… Help is coming.”

And sure enough, in the distance, a siren could be heard. Help was coming for these helpless, bloodied misfits. Finally, after all this, the fear and running and planning and the pain… they were done. Someone was coming for them, to assist them. Their fight was over, so said the exhausted aura that settled over their party. So strong was this feeling that they all believed it.

And how beautiful it would have been if that feeling had been correct.

Standing around Mikey’s body, some literally in his blood, the gravity of the situation was so heavy it kept most of everyone’s gaze down upon the bleeding bassist. Only Gerard chanced to look up in time as Monica suddenly ran forward, silent as she raised her blade, ready to drive it through Hannah’s turned back. Without thinking, Gerard grabbed Mikey’s dropped machete and in the same motion it took him to rise, drove it into the attacking woman’s chest.

Having missed the advance, all were snapped out of their short-lived relief, struck silent as they saw Gerard shove the blade into Monica's chest, sliding it almost too easily between her ribs. Even as Monica stumbled and fell, no one dared sink back into that safety yet. No one dared breathe as Monica’s choked noises filled the air. Now empty of that terrifyingly sudden rage, Gerard was afraid to look at the woman he’d just murdered until she started laughing.

“You… fucking idiots…. You don’t...” she coughed, “Don’t get it… It’s not over… It will never… be over. We’ve already got our hooks… deep in your scene… you thought little patty-yellow eyes was bad? One kid ended… with a fucking gun to his head and then in the mouth of his friend!” Bloodied teeth smiled in a disgusting sneer as she let out a choked, hysteric laugh. “You might’ve known… the little brat… too bad the poor pup… blew his brains out!” The downed harpy spat blood out of her mouth, struggling to choke out her words. “Make aaaall the noise you want... You’ll be silenced one way or another.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Gerard muttered, the smell of blood in the air just becoming far too much for him. His stomach was twisting and writhing just as much as his skin was, Monica’s voice sounding like a sour note in his mind. He choked back a retching reflex.

“C’mon, Gerard… look at your… great work!” She wheezed, grinning and laughing with an interlude of choking and spitting out blood. “An eye for an eye, right?”

Her voice would not be blocked out, no matter how hard Gerard tried to ignore it. He kept his eyes on Mikey and sent up prayer after prayer to whoever was listening that someone would come and save them already.

“I’ll tell Mikey… you say hi… _when I see him in hell_ ,” she spat before Hannah finally turned and kicked the woman head hard enough to shut her up. It didn’t stop the leeching tones of her voice that still hung in the air. Had all of this really been for nothing? How much more was still out there?

Ray, Frank, and Courtney eventually moved back over to the rest of them, huddling around Mikey’s body until the flashing red lights of the ambulances finally pulled up. Paramedics poured out, observing the carnage of the scene with equal amounts of horror and professionalism as they began to usher the party up, examining each one.

 At the sight of Mikey, however, the process was incredibly sped up.  Hurriedly, they began loading him onto a gurney, rushing as Gerard kept saying “I’m his brother! I’m his brother!” To which only one paramedic responded. “The get in the ambulance, sir. You can talk to the police at the hospital.”

Police. They were going to have to talk to police and explain all of this. How could they even begin?

“Gerard!” Frank yelled, running up to the singer with the brief case in his hands. “Get out of here. And take this with you,” He urged, following it up with a quick peck on the man’s cheek. Blank mind and empty hands, the case slid into the singer’s hands easily at Frank’s command. “Go.”

“Be safe,” was Gerard’s only urging as he was quickly taken away in the front seat of the ambulance. He knew in the back of this vehicle, his brother was in the hands of trained professionals who were going to take care of Mikey the best they could. All Gerard could do now was hope and wait.

Once they arrived at the hospital, the younger Way was whisked down a hall and out of view and some nurse promised to update the elder as soon as they had anything to tell him before chasing after the rolling table on which Mikey had disappeared.

A different nurse appeared then and ushered him into a small room to tend to the gashes on his back. Looking at himself through the mirror over the shoulder, he could see the bloody X across his skin and shuddered. She asked questions, ones that Gerard barely heard as he watched the clock and the door, just waiting for someone to come tell him Mikey was okay or that his friends were here and safe. Or even Monica, red-lipped with that wicked smile, ready to kill him. Instead, the nurse bandaged Gerard up and let him go to the waiting room to pace for twenty more minutes.

Still nothing.

This place was a trap, he was convinced. So many doors… you could hide anything here, a person, a small army. He was at least able to take advantage of the numerous rooms to hide the case in one of the empty patient rooms on the first floor. Once he was done with that, however, he was left with nothing but waiting in the mind-numbing waiting room. It took him yelling at a clock to realize how truly on edge he was. ‘This room,’ he thought, ‘it’s this tiny room.’ He just had to walk it off.

He wandered for ten more minutes, looking at all the rooms of old folks, cancer patients, and emergency room idiots. The Alzheimer patient, the man in his forties who’d smoked since 18, the idiot who’d accidentally stepped on broken glass. If only his life could’ve been as simple as any one of these people…

By some miracle, he’d made it to the pregnancy wing of the hospital. Things were different here; lighter, somehow. Calmer. The lobby was filled with expectant fathers and family members, all smiling and betting on the baby’s gender, last minute pleads to name the child after the grandfather. It was… a breath of fresh air.

Continuing further into this area, he came to the wide bay window, at least twenty newborn children wrapped in different color blankets. It was beautiful, to be sure… so many new lives. What would their world be like one day? Had Gerard done enough to save that world for them? Would they be safe from the horrors that the singer had seen?

“Kind of looks like a menu of children if you ask me,” a man chuckled, coming up next to the redhead at the window. The sudden talking startled the singer a bit, but the man looked nonthreatening. He certainly wasn’t a demon model in heels with a knife gunning for Gerard’s throat, which was refreshing. Dressed in blue jeans and a nice shirt, the man had been in the waiting room Gerard had just passed through. Probably a new father. The singer managed to crack a small smile and say something back.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, looking back to the window. This man had a point. “Little bit.”

“First time father?” The man asked. “You seem nervous.”

“Ah… No, I’m… My brother…” The man began to nod again, assuming the incomplete statement a reassignment of fatherly status. Frankly, Gerard didn’t care enough to correct him. The conversation was the best distraction the distressed man had found so far. “You?”

“My wife just got pregnant,” He said with a smile. “We’re just here for a checkup.”

“Boy or girl?” Gerard asked, this delightfully mundane conversation happily taking his mind off of everything he’d just left.

The father-to-be didn’t seem to notice Gerard slowly relaxing, or if he did he didn’t mention it. He just grinned and said, “Girl.”

“Honey,” came a soft call as doors opened on the other side of the room. An oddly familiar looking brown skinned woman who was didn’t look particularly pregnant came strolling up to the two of them, giving her husband a kiss before turning to Gerard. “Sweetheart, who’s your new friend?”

Finally it occurred to the two of them that they hadn’t introduced themselves to each other yet. “Ah, this is… um…”

“Gerard,” The redhead supplied. “Gerard Way. Your husband was just telling me about your daughter. That’s… fantastic.”

The woman smiled, and for a second Gerard was reminded of… someone. Something in the back of his mind was tugging at him and aggressively pointing at this woman. For the life of him, Gerard couldn’t figure out why, but he smiled back and nodded as she spoke.

“Thank you very much. We’re both really excited.” She gave her husband’s arm a gentle squeeze and he gave her a kiss on the forehead. It was such a sweet display, the singer’s mind was blissfully taken into it.

“Any names yet?” he asked, legitimately curious.

At this, they exchanged a look and then shook their heads. “None yet,” The woman said.

“No,” her father agreed, placing a hand gently on the woman’s stomach. “For right now, she’s just the girl in mommy’s tummy.”

“Our girl,” The woman amended with a look to her husband that Gerard was familiar with.

And suddenly he remembered why. Years in the desert of raising their Girl. His Girl. Their little spitfire ankle biter girl. Her smile and laugh filled his memory so vividly, it almost felt real. Of course, it had been real, once upon a time. She’d been his Girl. This woman, this man… they were her parents. How many nights had the girl cried asking where her mother was? When would she come back?

And here she was. Her smile was a mirror image of his little girl’s. Only not here. She wasn’t his anymore. Not in this world. She still had a chance now to have a normal life. She wouldn’t have to be raised in ruins and neon and radiation and a war against an empire.

He remembered now. Fighting for her. It was the reason for all of this, the reason for the Phoenix and Sing and the Young Bloods. He fought for her and for her world.

“…Are you alright, Gerard?” The woman asked. “You’re crying.”

His hand rose to his face, confirming that he was, in fact, crying. He hadn’t even noticed the tears. But he nodded, wiping the tears away and memories with them if he could, if only to complete a normal human interaction. “Of course.”

Perhaps the woman was about to say something more, but the door opened and a police officer stepped in. The singer tensed immediately, swallowing at the sight of the man. Sure enough, the officer began walking toward him. “Mr. Way?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Gerard breathed, mentally prepping for the worst.

The couple parted to the side, looking from the officer to Gerard, trying to figure out what they were missing. “Sir, could you come with me?” The man asked. “There’s a few things we’d like to ask you.”

There was no point in resisting, so Gerard nodded, and began following the man away, not bothering to look back at the new family that was probably rethinking their assumptions about the red-haired man as he walked away. As he reached the door however, he turned his head and smiled, saying, “Take good care of the little girl. She’s gonna be something special.” The incredulous looks and semi-sincere smiles were worth it, if only for the Girl’s sake one day in the future.

But now he was following this young police officer. No doubt this was when the questions were going to begin. There was so much Gerard had to answer for. How much did this officer know? How much did he want to know? Was he really going to be prepared for what was hiding in the shadows…?

~

Those left on the scene were being treated for their minor wounds and constantly being asked questions to see if they were in shock or other not-so-pleasantries. So far, they all just seemed like six bitter people covered in blood. Frank in particular was fairly paranoid, especially as police cars began pulling up.

“Guys,” he hissed, “If they ask about The Element, just say you don’t know where it is.”

Ray nodded, adding, “Just say one of the girls took it when they ran away.”

Everyone nodded, but Courtney seemed skeptical about the truth in general. “You think they’re really going to believe us about… elements and possession and all this shit?”

“We’ve got the warehouse to back us up,” Joe offered, pointing to the building behind them.

Finally, three squad cars pulled up and a few officers came out. Walking up to the group of survivors, the head detective introduced himself and informed them they were all going to be asked a few questions about what happened.

“But, before we get started, do you have any questions for us?”

Frank raised a hand, the encounter not dampening his senses of observation. “I’ve got one… That pin on your shirt, what is that?” He point at the gold pin of what looked like a person with his arms spread out.

The other officers, confused at the question, all peered at their superior’s pin not having noticed it before. The officer in question however, didn’t bother looking, maintaining his eye contact with the short guitarist.

“It’s ay, a… Scarecrow.”

“Oh,” Frank responded. “Got it.”

~

Two Scarecrow guards were stationed at the hospital, awaiting the arrival of the rest of their unit. Hovering just outside of the closed waiting room, the two guards kept vigil at all the passersby. There were only three doors to the waiting room. One lead into the surgery hall, past which civilians were not allowed, another to a small bathroom, and the other was the one the two of them were stationed at. They had no reason to believe their target would run, but if he did, they’d be ready for him.

Finally, the rest of the Unit arrived after only a few minutes. The interrogation of the other members had proved fruitless. In favor of stealth, they couldn’t hold any of the musicians or their troop, but none of them had what they were looking for.

As the Unit entered, they dispersed among the other officers, able to station around and observe without appearing suspicious. It was part of the benefit of the small Scarecrow team. They were virtually nonexistent and undetectable.

Immediately, Number One came up to the two guard outside of the waiting room.

 “Is Way inside?” he asked, careful to keep his voice down.

“Yes sir,” one guard said.

“And he has no reason to suspect you?”

“No sir,” said the other guard.

“Any idea on the asset's location?”

“No sir.”

Number one nodded, looking almost pleased with his men. The two guards didn’t dare share a look while their leader was still looking at them, but once he was inside, they could indulge themselves. “Good work, gentlemen,” Number One simply stated. With that, he walked into the waiting room, presumably to interview Mr. Way.

Unfortunately, after only a few seconds, Number One came back, turning on the two guards. It didn’t take a fool to see the man bristling. Something was wrong. “Gentlemen… answer me this, were you given the task of watching Mr. Way?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you find that to be a very… challenging task?”

“No sir.”

“Really?” Number one responded, leading into something neither guard was going to be excited to hear. “…Then where the hell is Gerard Way, boys?”

The two guards looked to each other, preferring the mutual fear and confusion to the indignant anger of their boss. With a gesture from Number One, they slowly wandering into the waiting room. Sure enough, there was no redheaded singer to be seen. Gerard was gone.

“Shit,” hissed one guard.

“How long has he not been here?!” quietly yelled his partner. “He could be anywhere by now!”

The first guard put up his hands to placate his partner, saying, “The guys got fire engine red hair. We’ll find him.” To prove his point, he walked up to the nearest nurse. “Ma’am, have you seen a man with bright red hair? He was waiting here for his brother…”

“Ah… I think he’s in the bathroom,” she said, pointing to the locked door across the way.

“Thank you ma’am,” the guard said, smiling as he walked away. This was fine. The man was in the bathroom, and that was all. Smacking his partner on the back perhaps a bit too hard, the first guard sighed. “See? All the hubbub for nothing. He’s probably just stressed. His brother’s in the ICU, for crying out loud. I’d be stressed too.”

“Sure sure,” his partner mutter, anxious to prove he’s done his job correctly. “Just get the door, Mac.”

They knocked. “Mr. Way? It’s detective Whitten and Freemont. Everything alright in there?”

“Mr. Way…?”

Silence.

“ _Shit_.”

“Get the door, Mac.”

“What?!” came a hushed exclamation. He gestured to the room around them, filled with anxious and worried relatives. “We’re in a hospital! We can’t just break the door down!”

The other partner rolled his eyes. “Oh for crying out…” With a sigh, the second guard looked over his shoulders, sighed, and kicked down the bathroom door, much to the startlement of all the people and many hospital faculty in the room.

The bathroom was completely empty save for what was written on the mirror in what looked to be black marker.

“We’re so incredibly screwed,” one guard said. Number One was going to have their asses and hang them on a wall.

To add insult to injury, the rest of the unit came in to observe the failure at the sound of the broken door. All it took was one look into the bathroom to realize how bad they'd fucked up. 

Number One came forward, his jaw set. He looked from the mirror to the guards and shook his head.

“They’re not going to like this.”

After all their work in the shadows, trying to combat this rebellion from the ground up, it could all be forfeit now, and the Mirror’s message was testimony.

Before Gerard had made his escape, he’d left his sign, unavoidable and unmistakable. The Black lines he’d drawn wrapped up their years of rebellion that had been and that had been in a different world. This was his declaration. He wasn’t done fighting, and he showed it to the world with his design.

Shining on the mirror was a black spider with a lightning bolt on its abdomen and a familiar crown with three dots placed above it. Above and below the crowned arachnid were the words in jagged scrawl:

THE PHOENIX STILL FLIES

KILLJOYS NEVER DIE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... Can you believe this is the end? I know I can't. Hook and I have been working on this for so long... It started as just a fun little roleplay, and now... now it's this huge fic that people have actually read and enjoyed. I'm so honored to have been apart of this with you all, and I hope you've had as much fun reading it as we've had developing it. Will there be more Phoenix to come, say and Epilogue or a sequel? It's all fluid at this point. But you'll find out before too long. Again, thank you so much for coming along with us on this ride and thank you for all your love and support across all these months. You guys have been such a wonderful audience. Keep Runnin  
> ~Duchess


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